


The Duck Knight: Rebirth

by mindthebutterfly



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics), DuckTales (Cartoon 1987)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gay, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Rare Pairings, Slash, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 94,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindthebutterfly/pseuds/mindthebutterfly
Summary: A suicidal Drake Mallard at the end of his rope finds himself spending a day in the company of a very eccentric and unusual individual, Gladstone Gander, who makes him a million dollar bet in a bid to save his life. With innocent lives on the line, and all the world against him, will luck Herself deign to smile upon them?
Relationships: Daisy Duck/Donald Duck, Fenton Crackshell & Drake Mallard, Gladstone Gander/Drake Mallard, Launchpad McQuack/Original Female Character(s), Morgana Macawber/Drake Mallard, Negaduck/Bushroot, Neptunia/Liquidator
Comments: 47
Kudos: 43





	1. Dawn Of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through a very hard time this week, with a very bad chest cough I still have, and little inspiration or energy to do anything else but watch old Darkwing episodes and listen to music. This idea took over my mind, and I have finally started putting it to pen. I know I have stories in other fandoms to finish, but this idea would not let me go of its grip.

Dawn. Scarlet shades of red and blue whirled into purple and orange in the endless sky, the low lying cloud banks creating a candy colored puff of cotton floating along the skyline. Tiny boats in the distance, like tiny white cranes, slowly wound their way along the bay, gently wafting their way towards the mighty edifice of Audubon Bay Bridge, little more than specks in comparison to the giant monolith of metal and rust.

Drake Mallard watched their slow meandering motions with glazed eyes, shoulders and chest leaning forward over the wrought iron fence and gate that was meant as a protective barrier between the world and the water of the bay. The long walkway of the stone pier here was beautiful, with tall curved Victorian style lamp posts and hanging flower baskets. Banners hanging from beneath the lamps advertised a ‘cruise’ with a stylized yacht silhouette. The paving stones were laid in radial patterns on the ground, along which could be found wood and wrought iron benches, and planter barrels with shrubbery. This walk was a holdover from a long ago attempt by the city to revitalize the waterfront district before industrialization had completely taken over St. Canard.

Its beauty was currently lost on Drake. His glazed eyes were focused not on the flowers or the paving stones, they were fixed, with reluctant certainty, on the water beyond the fence gate.

He heaved a little sigh, a moment of maudlin memory of a child Drake coming down to this port with the little gang he had been stuck with, terrorizing people for their money, asking for the ‘toll’ to use the fence gate. A gentler time, he momentarily looked back on those days with longing. It was better than this.

Drake pointedly went through the gate, out onto the pier, which was little more than the walking path extended along beyond the gate with bollards for ships to tie off. A little further to the right was a barrier grate of metal, to prevent the ships coming into the port from being pulled into the swirling abyssal vortex of a water pump. This was his destination, and he gave one last final look over the bay, looking out over the water for the very last time.

It was beautiful, he knew it. He just didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel the call to climb the edifice of the bridge that was still his home and look out over the city and harbor. He no longer felt the pride and confidence this action had always engendered. A look over at the city was a startling reminder as to how small he really was. Industrial offices and factories rose like pointing fingers above him into the distance where the St Canard Towers building now stood in imposing accusation, the SEC Tech advertising logo blinking from the top of the tower in a gentle reminder, a little nudge. It was as if the blinking logo was saying ‘Its...time...its...time...’ over and over.

Drake felt the dread of defeat overwhelming him momentarily as he peered down into the swirling water. He knew without a doubt, without any consideration of thought, that not even Darkwing Duck could outswim that undertow, and nobody would be able to save him in time.

It would be hours before he was found. It was settled. This was the place.

But the logistics of committing suicide were daunting. The pier was high above the pump, and he worried he’d catch on something, accidentally save himself, the irony of ironies. His flat webbed feet found the edge of the precipice and he looked down into it.

The swirling was hypnotic. For a moment, he was scared.

Then a memory, sad, awful, painful, horrid. The sudden feeling of a distant thud, like a hammer striking the ground, then the wind, the massive shockwave blast hurtling towards him, crushing and crashing, and striking through the suburbs of St Canard, the echoing of screams...somebody was screaming...a girl in his arms, her red hair, her eyes damp with pain, surrounded by the ruin which was their home, the devastation…

It would have carried on like this for some time before he would have gotten the courage to jump, but he was stopped in any motion by a hand on his shoulder that caused him to jerk with a scream, actually going backwards, and he turned in fear and terror to confront the being that had suddenly touched him.

“Hey hey woah! I’m sorry to startle you there sir!” The duck who had approached and touched him put out placating hands and actually grabbed Drake’s left arm with his own, steadying his balance. “I was just wondering, if you were waiting here for the ferry?”

Drake gasped, heaving a deep breath as the nightmare vision of his memory faded and was replaced by the visage of this gentleman.

He was handsomer than any duck should be, with a curved and upturned bill, devastating blond curly hair styled back in a messy undercut under a gray-green fedora. He was dressed immaculately, in the antiquated style of a gentleman dandy, blue and white checked cotton shirt, under a clover green and gold embroidered silk vest, with pocket watch chain. An over jacket of soft royal green tweed completed the fashionable uppers, the lower the matching green pants, finalized with, of all things, spats. White creme sock spats with tiny gold buttons. A modern black mesh backpack over his shoulders was an anachronistic addition to the otherwise entirely vintage look. 

“No...what? The ferry?”

“Yes, the ferry, it’ll be along here any moment and I am always first in line when I travel by ferry, back to my beloved home port of Duckburg, which is why I was confused to see someone arrive so well before I did. I’ll assume that is why you are here…?”

Of course he had to have been from Duckburg. The arrogance of the comment, the softly veiled note of superiority, suddenly filled him with a twist of anger.

“No!! NO I’M NOT TAKING THE FERRY!” he could feel his hoarse and cracked voice scratching as he shrieked the comment. “I’M TRYING TO COMMIT SUICIDE HERE!”

All the air momentarily left the world, and he gasped back his voice. The sudden realization and dawning horror of his own statement was matched only by the briefest look of sparkling concern in the blue-green eyes of the dandy, and then he leaned his head back and...blinked.

“Huh...I see. Well then,” he straightened himself, adjusted his vest and coat a little more carefully, and then turned back to Drake to put his hand on his shoulder. “Then you...should wait for the ferry.”

A blink.

“...Whuh?”

“Yes,” the gentleman looked over the edge of the pier into the pump and then took Drake once again by his left arm to turn him. “The backwash from the ferry and the amount of increased pressure by the undertow will ensure that not even an elite swimming champion would be able to survive. It is your best bet to ensure success in your endeavor.”

Horror filled Drake at this comment, this arrogant, uncaring comment. The man was serious. And he was smiling, almost as if he expected the answer that was coming.

“You...are you INSANE????” Drake tried to pull free and was startled by how much stronger this man’s grip was. “That’s a TERRIBLE thing to say to someone committing suicide!!”

“Ah ah...AH!” the man put up a long, delicate finger to his bill. “So you DO want my help after all…I’ll be happy to oblige...”

Drake found himself gasping as he was pulled away from the pump by the firm handed duck, the other hand coming up to join the left, holding Drake firmly and keeping him from leaving, nor turning in another direction. He found his own feet, compelled as if by nature, to follow, though his chest was heaving and he was desperately looking back over his shoulder towards the pump.

“Come along now sir,” said the stranger, and Drake whined as he was pulled back to the safe side of the fence, and to a bench, which he was pulled down to sit upon. “This is the best place to wait for the ferry…it really is a trip that I would consider vital to the completion of any well tended Bucket List.”

“The _ferry_ …” Drake’s voice was so restricted he barely made a sound. His body was shaking, fear and confusion was now gripping him again. “The ferry! You are obsessed with the ferry!”

“Yes,” said Dandy, as Drake was now mentally calling him, who sat down next to him, keeping one hand firmly gripping his shoulder. “I have a particular knowledge about this ferry, having written a book about this particular vessel and its fascinating history. This ferry boat was a riverboat brought up here from the southern states,” the man had begun into lecture mode, crossing his elegant legs pointedly. “It has sunk two times, been on fire fourteen, was raided by pirates, stolen, and crossed the Pacific to Asia and back...a rare success for a riverboat of such design. It has, in fact, stolen my soul…”

Drake could not believe it. Here he was, at his suicidal and most desperate low, miserable, frustrated, and exhausted from hours of wandering and walking to come to this place, and this man, this Dandy of all things, was talking about a boat!

“I...I mean...” Drake could not make his words more sarcastic if he tried. “I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but how does this help me, AT ALL?”

“Oh, I haven’t gotten to that part yet,” the Dandy said, and the beautiful green blue eyes took on a look for a moment that was of pure adoration. “If you will be patient, indulge me, I shall tell you about...the _legend_.”

A momentary silence lapsed, and Drake felt his annoyance growing, replaced only by panic, because the sun was rising, and the dock was becoming more populated with people. He hadn’t wanted any witnesses.

“Legend...?”

“Yes, the legend of _La Diosa Fortuna_...” the Spanish words breathed from his voice, like little green and red birds fluttering off into the distance. “According to the legend, if you go to the statue of _La Diosa Fortuna_ in _Los Islas de Prosperidad,_ which you might know as the Prosperity Keys, then she may grant you a wish, any wish, your heart desires. I have been there many times, almost too many times to count, and I pray to _La Diosa Fortuna_ faithfully.”

Drake realized that the brassy voice of this flashy Duckburgian was slightly Scottish in its lilt, as the Spanish completely changed and recolored the voice with something of a new ethnic element that was somehow mesmerizing, beautiful, yet only enhancing and highlighting that beautiful brogue further.

No. He was not going to go there.

“I’ve never ever heard of this before...” Drake admitted, feeling suddenly like a stranger in his own harbor. This Duckburgian knew something he didn’t...he might have been lying but Drake was very good at detecting such a facade. This gentleman believed every single word he had spoken.

“It is not a well known legend, hence why I felt the need to put pen to page…” the Dandy now looked up at him, quirking his head sideways, rather curiously. “I have made many wishes, have traveled upon this ferry many times, as I said, and felt it necessary to share the experience of this trip with everyone. I feel it is always worth the journey.”

Drake felt his skepticism and cynicism growing.

“Well,” he huffed and leaned forward, wanting to get rid of this Dandy as quickly as possible...and get his life over with just as quickly. “Have you ever actually HAD a wish fulfilled by _La Diosa Fortuna_?” said with as much sarcasm and venom he could muster.

Rather than being offended, the Dandy lifted his head back, a very delicate gesture of consideration. 

“Well, I suppose, it would depend upon who you were asking...anyone else, it would be the proof of a miracle to answer yes, of course. But I...am Gladstone Gander.”

Recognition of the name suddenly hit Drake, and he sized the man, looking him up and down and suddenly realizing that he had maybe seen him before, yes...this could very possibly be…

“The nephew of Scrooge McDuck?” he said, astonishment in his voice.

“I have that honor,” the man breathed, meaning it.

“The _heir_ to the McDuck estate???” Drake continued, feeling as if his feet were being swept up from underneath him by a rocking wave. How he wished that were true.

“As of this moment,” said Gander, with a soft sorrow, a resigned sadness, and the beautiful bill turned down in the first real frown that he had given since their conversation had first begun. “But...we always live in hope of finding the boys...and bringing them home.”

Drake gaped. This was Gladstone Gander. The Heir. Quadrillionaire-to-be...and as of recent news, now the new CEO of the largest industrial mining corporation in the world, McDuck Industries Incorporated.

“Hope, you see, is never very far…” Gander continued, gentle in tone. “I always liken it to a light that is just too far over the horizon to be seen from afar, but whose glow can be seen if one travels just far enough to reveal it,” a sigh filled him. “But as for the boys, this is in fact, one of the few prayers I have made to _Fortuna_ that has yet to be fulfilled…”

“Oh...well I’m sorry…”

Drake wasn’t sure about that. A lot of rumor and innuendo had swirled around the media blitz about this CEO, having been openly accused by a cousin of sending the boys away on purpose so he could snatch up the old McDuck’s fortune for himself. But Drake was also inclined not to believe gossip rags and would have to give this...very wealthy and handsome gentleman the shadow of a doubt.

“No... _La Diosa_ moves in mysterious ways...and often will not grant a wish because it is difficult...not for her, but for the people involved. So perhaps it is too hard for the boys to return the way things are now...at any rate, that is not what I will pray for today. Today...I want to pray for...a husband.”

Drake blinked and outright stared at him. Yes, the rumors had been there, the scandal had broken across the usual tabloids on market news stands across the city, the severely handsome socialite being caught in the act with the famous actor who had sold their love story to every rag, website and tv station in the country. Gladstone Gander’s purported homosexuality had been a very big scandal for the socially conservative industrial complex of McDuck. 

Still...it couldn’t have been considered that terrible by The McDuck himself or Gander would not be the heir. Would he?

“A husband huh?” he could feel the wry irony in the comment. From film star sex scandal to settled down devoted spouse seemed a stretch for this man.

“Yes,” Gander sighed. “Even my considerable good luck has not found me one...And I don’t want just any man…” he rolled his eyes expansively. “I want someone who truly loves me,” the man looked just a little bit sad at this. “Not for my money, or fame, or inheritance, but for me. Genuinely for me. Most people who meet me...do not care for me at all...I admit to being extremely eccentric and happily so, but it does make romance a bit frustrating.”

Drake felt suddenly a little bit guilty. He had in fact, judged this man immediately. But since he was trying to keep Drake from ending his life, he couldn’t have been a bad person, per se, just different. Difficult to deal with. The arrogance was off putting, though he now noticed that it was mostly gone, replaced by this hopeful look whilst speaking about the subject of marriage.

“What would you wish, if you could have anything from _La Diosa?_ ”

Ah here it was. Drake recognized this. He had been trained in suicide prevention and recognized this line of questioning, the standard, the giving hope where there was just none.

“Oh mister you are asking the _wrong_ person…” Drake said, and stood up to stomp frustratedly forward towards the pier.

Gander didn’t stop him, just rose with him, following him, keeping him at a respectful physical distance whilst staying close enough to stop him from running. Drake found himself in a mirror of the posture he had been in this morning, elbows on the iron fence, shoulders forward, but now looking down and out towards the pier’s edge as if hoping for a lifeline that would launch him over the grate and away from this flashy character. He was filled with such dread at the question he knew was coming, like the rolling of distant thunder.

“I can hardly say so,” Gander said, catching up to Drake and leaning backwards on the rail, crossing his webbed feet one over the other. Drake realized suddenly that Gander was leaning on the fence gate specifically, keeping him from going through. Clever. “I have not had the pleasure of learning who you are.”

Oh this was going to make the whole fiasco just worth it by the boatloads. He sat up and laughed, an ironic, tired and frustrated laughed, one filled with the ultimate finality of his existence.

“I...am Drake Mallard.”

Now. Now his wish fulfilled, the haughty stranger stood up, in startlement. His green-blue eyes were dancing with a strange light.

“Drake Mallard? _That_ Drake Mallard…?” he pointed backwards towards the city reflexively.

“Yes, THAT Drake Mallard,” Drake also flung his hand towards the city, then advanced on Gander with eyes blazing and chest tight, too much pain in his words. “I’m the man who sent Gizmoduck to _prison_ for the rest of his natural _life_.”

He felt the sudden swelling of agony, pain and the tears filling his eyelids, was astonished that he still had tears to shed, and bent back down over the railing, weeping in despair.

* * *

Gladstone took a moment watching Drake Mallard regain his composure, and waited, just waited, letting the man work through himself from this last admission. He knew there was more to come, and he would not stop it.

“I ruined a man’s life!” Mallard suddenly said, voice an agonized choke. “I lost everything, my secret identity,” he shook his head, as if this fact didn’t matter at all. “I went to prison, the state took my daughter from me,” his voice turned agonized and filled with complete and utter devastation at this admission, “my girlfriend left me...I was kicked out of Justice Ducks, my own team…” his voice was a whine. “My best friend isn’t speaking to me...people on the streets _hate_ me and _spit_ on me,” his voice turned harsh, crass and raw, filled with a violence unexpressed. “And I have sold EVERYTHING I own, including my land claim, to pay for a teenage boy’s hospital bills so that he might be able to _breathe_ for another day. But I have nothing left, not a penny, and not strength to endure. Just the clothes on my back,” Gladstone had noted the ragged clothes; the faded threadbare button down with its undone cuffs, open at the neck, the tattered blue jeans, the faint bulk of a billfold wallet in one pocket. “I have nothing left to give anyone. I have no purpose, no joy, no reason for being. I’ve hurt everyone I love and can barely stand seeing that poor boy every day and knowing that I’ll always be a part of the reason why he’ll never walk again. I don’t deserve to live!”

Drake Mallard fell down onto his knees on the ground, and sobbed, sobbed as hard as a person could sob, and Gladstone felt his chest swelling with both pride at the man’s willingness to divulge and sorrow, complete sorrow at the devastation he was witnessing. The fall of a hero was never beautiful, no matter how tragic society tried to play it, no matter how, well, to put it bluntly, attractive the man was. Drake Mallard was filled with ugly grieving, hating, hurting, biting, pain and it showed.

It was taking a bit of liberty on his part to lower himself down onto the ground, leg outstretched next to Drake and put a hand out to rest on his shoulder. The hand was permitted, not rejected, and Gladstone sighed, leaning forward so that he barely had to breath for the man to hear what he was saying.

“Drake. I really do feel, deep inside, that you need to come with me. Come with me on the ferry. Pray to _La Diosa_. What have you got to lose?”

* * *

Drake really really really wanted to smack this man. Really really wanted to hit him. But he couldn’t, because he recognized this tactic as well and hated himself. He was doing everything to keep Drake talking, building a rapport, being empathetic, communicating, and offering Drake something to do besides death, something that was immediate that could distract from the suicide thoughts long enough for him to talk and work through his feelings. This man was clearly trained in suicide prevention. Which was probably the reason why the future Richest-Duck-On-Earth hadn’t just called an ambulance and been done with it. It would have really made things worse.

“What have I got to lose? Nothing. Nothing at all...but I am going to tell you right now, I do NOT want to go on the ferry! They should never ever put you on a suicide hotline. Honestly!”

It was the opposite of the truth, but he felt inclined to be adversarial, he really wanted to be done with all of this.

“You’re still alive aren’t you?” Gander said, and chuckled. “Okay Drake, you don’t have to go on the ferry. But I think you should…”

“Mister Gander…”

“I tell you what, I’ll give you a reason to go,” he stood up, and adjusted his vest. “I am a gambler, a man of fortune and I enjoy a good wager. I bet you one million dollars that _La Diosa Fortuna_ will grant you a wish.”

“...What??” Drake suddenly felt his throat close up.

“One million dollars,” Gander repeated. “If it doesn’t come true…” Gander thought for a moment, or pretended to, and put up a finger. “And if it does come true, then you must come back here and take the ferry with me again. Let's say...thirty days hence?”

He was out of his mind. He was totally out of his mind. But then again...he was a CEO. A million dollars was probably chunk change for him.

“A million dollars would...buy a lot of happiness for a lot of people,” Drake thought miserably of the Muddlefoots, living in their camper trailer, Tank camping out in a tent. “A lot of people.”

“It would,” Gander looked a little smug, clearly he had won the argument and was waiting for the obvious conclusion to his boast.

Drake knew he had been licked. He wanted to prove this jerk wrong, and get a million dollars for the Muddlefoots. Then he could die. Thirty days.

“Oh all right!” he threw up his hands. “I’ll go on the ferry with you,” he noticed the immediate jump of delight the man gave and huffed, turning on him. “How much is this trip anyways? I don’t have any money.”

“Ah ah, it's on me, since I’m the one who pushed you into it. My day pass lets me bring a guest for free,” he held out his hand. “Don’t worry Drake, we’ll be making this trip together. I won’t leave you, you are not alone. You have a friend in me.”

A friend. Gladstone Gander’s eyes were smiling, genuine, his hand was held out, palm up, in offer, and Drake felt himself almost shaking to the very soul of himself as he fearfully took the proffered hand. This wasn’t a handshake, it was an offer to grip on and stay attached, a lifeline to prevent him from leaving, and once the hand was in his, Gander’s other hand wrapped around his shoulder and turned him towards the dock gate.

“It's all right, you got this. I’m proud of you. It's a big step, and I thank you for your trust.”

All Drake would think about was Honker Muddlefoot, the hissing of his oxygen tank, the blipping of a heart monitor, and the crying of Binkie Muddlefoot, the screaming as she single handedly had tried to dig her entire family out from the rubble all by herself.

The Muddlefoots still needed him, he owed it to them to try this, to try and bring one teenage boy a new lease on life...even if it meant he had to live thirty more days to do it.

But his heart trembled, his chest heaved, he was quivering and shaking. The ferry had chugged into the port as they were talking, and Drake was struck by its immense size, the tall smoke stacks above chuffing out gray sooty and somehow still cheerful puffs of smoke, the white smooth paint, the green hull and red trim and big red back wheel, the many levels of the boat with their shaded porches, the painted trim railings. She was a beautiful ship, that was most certain, and called in mind the riverboats of New Orioles in the south, and he noted, with irony, that the ship’s name was _La Fortuna._

“I should have known,” he chuckled a bit...and pointed the confused Gander to the gold painted lettering on the hull.

“Ah, yes,” he laughed too. “Yes, _La Diosa_ is one of the important stops this ferry takes you to. The tour is really rich with history as well. I…”

“...wrote a book,” Drake finished for him, and chuckled as the man colored in embarrassment.

“Yes, I’m a writer by preference, and my Uncle says it's one of the only true bits of real work I’ve ever done,” the man rolled his eyes, largely. “But I’m afraid he is in error, for me writing is not work, it is an act of love. I shall have to get you a copy. I will sign it, of course.”

Drake raised an eyebrow, then mentally panicked as the gangplank was now dropped onto the port and the safety railings raised into place, providing a safe upward slope onto the ship. Gander had gotten his day pass out and waited for them to be given the go ahead to go up the ramp.

“Oh god,” Drake said, and found himself actually gripping Gander’s hand tightly in his own. “I’m really doing this...oh god…”

“It’s all right, Drake, I’m right here,” he gently pulled him towards the ramp, by his hand, one step, two step, the pass handed to the guard, and day pass badges were given to them to pin to their jackets so they could reboard from any port they visited.

“Second or third level is always the best, I find the first is usually so crowded,” he pointed Drake towards a set of stairs that led to the next level of the boat. “I also find that it's better to be on the side nearest the shore, it isn’t the most spectacular ocean view, but you see more points of interest.”

Drake decided to take his word for it. They moved towards the back of the boat, and Drake realized that when Gander had told him the second level was best, he wasn’t kidding. Drake could see the entire shoreline of Saint Canard. It was an amazing view, he hadn’t realized, whilst standing down below, just how long and expansive the port was. He could even see a park, people were coming out for walking their dogs, the place was starting to teem with tourists and travellers, and the line for the ferry was a lot longer than he had realized.

“Gladstone…” Drake tried the name, unfamiliar with how to pronounce it. He knew how it was spelled from reading the papers, but when the man had introduced himself the ‘Stone’ had been stated with more of a ‘Stun’ sound. “I am...really grateful...even if I may lash out at times, I wanted to thank you in advance…”

“Oh no problem Drake, I am only too happy...do you want to stand by the railing, or sit here on the bench?”

Drake looked at the railing, and realized Gander was giving him an opportunity to pointedly choose not to stand where he could so easily make a jump for it…

“I’ll sit...I’ve been on my feet since...five am at least...what time is it now?”

“Eight o’clock...on the dot.”

Since the seats were slightly to the back of the deck they picked a spot that was a little more to the back so they could also see over the wheel to where they had been. As the big ship began to move away from the port and chug forward under the bridge, a slightly nasal sounding voice suddenly came over the loudspeakers.

“Good morning everyone, my name is Harry and I will be your captain on today’s trip. Welcome to Audubon Bay Tours, brought to you by the Saint Canard Museum of Natural History and the Duckburg Historical Society. We would like to welcome you on this day’s tour to visit _Los Islas Prosperidad_ , we ask you to please obey signage for safety precautions on display around the boat, there is no running or jumping allowed on the deck, the gift shop will be open on the first level, and the eatery on the top level will be open all day for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat. Once again welcome to the tour and I hope you have an excellent day.”

Drake divulged himself in a moment of pathetic irony. Here he was, Darkwing Duck, the terror that flaps in the night, the scourge of flies that infests your back porch screen door, and he was sitting on a river boat, with the CEO of McDuck Industries, going on a little sightseeing tour. He had taken this ironic leap of faith, and was faced with the harsh and ironic reality of the day ahead of him, to be spent in the company of this strange, eccentric, attractive, empathetic individual, surrounded by the temptation of the blessed waters, and their deep, and final, embrace.

Nothing could have prepared him for this singular situation and he gripped the bench seat tightly as the ferry boat chugged forward determinedly on its way.

There was no other way around it. He was on it, he was going, and now that he was, there was no going back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get a good idea of what the ferry boat I described looks like, have a Google search for the riverboat Georgia Queen, a gorgeous boat that I wish I could travel on.


	2. Justice Ducks Assemble!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading my story. :) I appreciate comments, always. I also really appreciate the kudos, thank you so much everyone! I hope you're enjoying my story, slow going as it is, I'm writing this for NaNoWriMo.

It was a pretty pickle, he was sure of it. _The Los Islas de Prosperidad_ tour was a once a month special trip by this tour company, mostly booked up by the end of the first week and sometimes overbooked, and he had bought a two person pass on a whim, not knowing that he would actually be going due to his CEO commitments, and not knowing what would result from buying the pass anyways, letting luck guide him. Drake Mallard had lucked out big time, and so had he.

But this part of the tour was a very slow plodding circuit around St. Canard, and Gladstone Gander really hoped this time would be well spent for Drake Mallard, seeing his own city through the tour guide’s eyes, learning to see his city in a different light. This tour was how he himself had fallen in love with the industrialized pavement monolith of St. Canard.

Fortunately the tour guide captain’s nasal voice regularly came over the speaker from time to time, alerting passengers to points of interest. The Harborfront Festival Plaza specifically was notable for tourists, since all the festivals happened there. This allowed Gladstone to settle upon a tactic for getting Drake Mallard to open himself up and talk.

“Drake,” he leaned back, seeing a light enter the man’s eyes only briefly at his name, and the slow rising of the billed head. “Have a look over there. Can you see our company’s building?”

Drake gave a sort of ironic chuckle.

“Yeah, I see it…Kind of hard to miss _that_ logo.”

He had a point. The roof of the building had the large ‘McDuck’ name in big cursive letters with the small rectangular ‘Ind. Inc.’ part of the logo as a side note to the massive sign. It looked like the logo of some fast food chain and Gladstone had been considering a logo redesign. He now moved this up on his list of priorities. 

“Well, the building itself looks like nothing from the outside, but it was originally a drafting and architectural design school. Built in the 1800s, the only elevator is still manually operated by an attendant. I would love you to be able to see it someday, even if you just visit the foyer.”

“I’ve never actually been there,” Drake said, sounding slightly astonished at this fact. “I never had to...well…”

“Catch any bad guys there?” Gladstone guessed. “Security is always a top priority in our company.” 

“I can imagine that.”

Drake didn’t seem like he wanted to discuss his own life at all, and Gladstone knew that discussing his troubles would be part of the healing process. He had to keep the man conversing, convince him to talk out his problems.

“I’m not a native to this city, and have only really learned about its sights through tours such as these. Perhaps you would be willing to point things out to me the tour guide has missed?”

Drake gave a little ‘huh’ sound, and slowly stood to his feet. He walked forward towards the railing and Gladstone overwhelmingly fought the urge to rush after him. He did follow, but only close enough for hearing whatever Drake decided might interest him. He didn’t want to spook the man, he trusted that Drake was willing to try the trip, but still caution was advisable at this stage.

He couldn’t afford to lose.

“Well, the tour guide said this was sponsored by the history museum, right there is the museum,” Drake pointed with his fingers, towards a long squat almost barely visible white building, reminiscent of the Whitehouse. “And there, down beside it, the Headquarters of Sunroast Coffee, that’s my brand,” he grinned, and Gladstone mentally chuckled, and congratulated himself for Drake’s decision to relate his personal preference, material though it was. “Um, that building there with the red and white radio tower is KXDC, they have a rivalry with Tom Lockjaw’s station, but I consider them to be less biased in their reporting…”

Gladstone’s laugh was genuine and Drake leaned forward on his elbows on the railing.

“Anything in particular that is interesting, well, to a Duckburgian like me?” he grinned, knowing that St. Canardians were inclined to believe people from Duckburg were overly conservative, snobbish and arrogant, and Duckburg natives tended to see St. Canard as a haven for rude, loud, criminal louts.

It was ironic really, Gladstone had met so many wonderfully nice people who hailed from both cities, if only they could get along!

“Hmmm...” Drake sat up very straightly, and peered forward. They were, of course, limited to buildings that could be seen from the river, but he did point with his hand to what wasn’t a particularly notable looking building. “See that tall skinny apartment that looks like it's...well giving us the bird?” It was snug between two smaller buildings and very much saying eff you to the world. “Right there, that’s where Megavolt lives right now, on parole.”

“You’re kidding?” Gladstone said, astonished.

He leaned forward himself and for a moment, there was no comment. Then a sudden flash of light went off in one of the windows, followed by a pulsing glow, and Drake actually laughed!

“Yep, there he goes,” Drake put his hands in his pockets and leaned backwards, resting on his heels. “Half the villains in St Canard have rented up that apartment building in the past, so that’s usually where I looked for anyone I was...chasing…” Drake thought about it for a moment, his expression was too casual for someone who was talking about life as the masked Darkwing Duck, but then he turned to look at him puzzled. “I think the landlady is somewhat open-ended in her rental policies.”

Gladstone wanted to laugh out right, but he also wanted to shout in triumph. He hadn’t asked about Darkwing related content...Drake had been willing to divulge! Gladstone took one more look at the building before they chugged out of sight of it...A supervillain! In the flesh living right there!

“Hmm, that’s the theatre,” Drake continued pointing. “I’ve seen a few plays staged, oh Nightswan got her start as a dancer there. She’s now in the Justice Ducks, along with her sidekick, Lunala, they are an amazing duo,” Gladstone was gloriously aware that Drake had just diverted into Darkwing mode, examining the city now as from the point of view of places he had actually known from his crime fighting days.

_Well, all Drake’s days have been crime fighting days, one would assume…_

“I know Drake...tell me about the Justice Ducks! How did you get started? I only know that your existence annoyed the heck out of my Uncle since you took Gizmoduck away from protecting his money bin…”

Drake actually gave a little chuckle and stretched a bit.

“Well, it happened the day we defeated the Fearsome Five. My amazing intelligent daughter had the idea that the five of us heroes who had come together to stop Negaduck should form a superhero team, just like in the comic books. I was...very reluctant at first,” he scratched the back of his head, looking embarrassed. “But we all decided to work together to destroy Negaduck’s energy wall, to defeat his team, and it worked so well that Morgana, uh, my ex-girlfriend, took the Justice Ducks idea we had just been using that day and ran with it.”

“Ran with it?”

“She surprised everyone...I really was not expecting it at all…”

\--------

“Here it is DW,” said Launchpad McQuack, as the Ratcatcher’s motor revved down from high speed into a slow parking stance. “The old library…”

It was a large building, a dark gray stone structure, with dark columns and a tall stone stairwell. A real estate sign with a bright red ‘sold’ sticker across the front made him consider its status for a moment. The new modern library had finally opened a few days, ago, and this place wasn’t done being emptied of its important contents. The only noticeable thing about the library, besides the ‘Public Library’ sign carved across the roof, was the massive golden oak wooden doors.

“Morgana said she needed us to meet her here right away,” Darkwing jumped up out of the sidecar and immediately took to the stairs and raced into the building. “If some dastardly devious denizen of destruction has pilfered the public library’s property or…”

“Hey look, there’s a showing next week of _West Side Story_ …” Launchpad had stopped at the library’s public community activities board inside the doors in the foyer.

“Launchpad, focus,” Darkwing said, gritting his teeth, and they pushed through the big wooden inner doors into the library proper.

The library was silent. And it was messier than Gosalyn’s bedroom. The shelves were dusty and the floor piled with old boxes of books still needing to be moved to the new library. Near the door a bright red handled mop and metal pail sat, disused, near the leaking water fountain, a deep green stain growing ominously around it. Darkwing could see spiderwebs being meticulously constructed by diligent widows and fabulous fiddlers in the rafters.

“Yep, this looks like Morgana’s kind of place…” Darkwing said stiffly, and noted Launchpad, sticking to his side so clearly creeped out. “Morgana?”

“Over here Dark darling!”

Darkwing felt his confidence grow; she had sounded light hearted, happy, and hearing her pet name for him was always wonderful. It filled him with a warmth unimaginable every time he was reminded of their love. He found her near the back of the library at a desk behind all the stacks, with a feather duster in hand, wearing an apron. An enchanted broom was sweeping the floor into a hovering dust pan. She was actually cleaning. Normally Morgana, dust and cobwebs were fast friends.

“Morgana...honey are you feeling okay?” Darkwing said, nervously. 

“Oh Dark, isn’t this place perfect?”

“It's...certainly something I would consider to be right up your alley,” Darkwing delicately shooed Archie the spider away from his feet with one hesitant toe, when the upset arachnid had fled in terror from the broom to take shelter with him. “I shall assume by your work of diligently dusting the displays that you have purchased this place?”

“That’s right! I used my restaurant as collateral. The others should be here soon, grab a duster and a broom and help me start cleaning!”

That did surprise him. Morgana’s restaurant meant everything to her, professionally, and to just on a whim grab a building with a loan, and probably a mortgage, and use her restaurant as collateral...

“Wow, Morg, um, I hope you are um, does this mean you’re expanding your restaurant business into a chain?”

She stopped for a moment, to look at him. Then she laughed!

“No Darkwing, I bought this place for us! For the Justice Ducks, to be our meeting place!”

Darkwing took an unsteady step back. So this was what she meant by ‘others’. A meeting place.

For the Justice Ducks.

Suddenly the infinite future seemed vast. The possibilities were filling his head as he turned to look around the dark empty library, his chest filling with such warmth and pride at the decision she had made, on a whim, to keep their group together, to find ways to bring them to the same place. A meeting house!

“That’s a great idea!” Launchpad said, and diligently grabbed a broom to start battling the dust bunnies.

“Dark?”

He turned to look at her, so full of joy he couldn’t contain it.

“You did this...for us? For our team?”

She smiled, and put her hands down in front of her, the feather duster causing one stray cobweb to float with almost calm finality to the floor.

“I did. I wanted a place where the public could know who we are, and we could attract new heroes to join the cause. A place of justice.”

Darkwing took her startled into his arms to embrace her, speechless. She rewarded him with a gentle kiss on the top of his head. He might have gotten more, but Stegmutt’s sudden presence was known by the shaking and rocking of the library shelves and his voice calling out through the stacks.

“Oh Morgana! Miss Morgana! I got your message Miss Morgana!”

“Wonderful Stegmutt! The city wants the last of the public library property brought out back to their truck...you can start with those boxes.”

Activity followed. Diligent cleaning. Neptunia arrived later, and offered to look into the plumbing situation, and jumped down the nearby city manhole beside the library to make sure the pipes were all good. Boxes were carried out, Stegmutt dealt quickly with broken shelves and furniture, mostly by breaking them accidentally with his tail...

It wasn’t long before Gizmoduck arrived with his usual blustering fanfare and finesse, revving into the building at full motor and fashionably late. He had about a zillion gadgets for cleaning at his disposal and completely took to the idea of a headquarters.

“We’ll have a team slogan and logo, and maybe our own merchandising deal!” he said as he did battle with the festoons of fiddlers.

Gizmoduck was always thinking about marketing. Darkwing himself had always carried his own glossies around with him for fans, so he could totally empathize.

“We need to think of how we’ll pay the mortgage, Morgana used her restaurant as collateral…” Darkwing said practically as he swept, and noted her blush of embarrassment.

“Well, how about a fundraiser?” said Launchpad.

“I think a fundraiser is an excellent idea!” Giz enthused. “A barbeque, maybe we could invite the media…”

“We can’t ask the people we’re going to protect to pay us money!” said Neptunia.

“Well why not?” said Launchpad. “I mean, the police get paid to do the same thing,” and he paused. “Um, I hope sidekicks are welcome too.”

“Of course they are,” Morgana said. 

“The more the merrier I say!” Gizmoduck enthused. “We’ll make it one of our rules for membership, heroes and sidekicks both accepted!”

“Rules for membership,” Darkwing sighed. “I guess we’ll need rules, or things will go out of control.”

“But not too many rules, I won’t remember them all,” Stegmutt looked stricken by the very idea of rules.

“Hmmm, I could ask Gosalyn and the Darkwing Fan club to help us come up with a list,” Drake offered. “I mean, it was Gosalyn’s idea we have a superhero team, she probably has all sorts of ideas about what superhero teams actually do.”

“Wonderful idea Darkwing!” Morgana said. “Already getting the community involved!”

He blushed when she kissed him right on his long bill. Gizmoduck and the rest cat called, of course, and Morgana shooed them away, off to some other duties.

“So, can we discuss the name?” Neptunia finally inserted herself into the one subject that bothered her. “Cause I’m not a duck!”

“I used to be,” Stegmutt finished, and Darkwing laughed.

“How about Justice Ducks and Friends?”

This is what their team would officially become, but often it would just be shortened to Justice Ducks, to Neptunia’s continual distress. But having so many of his friends, fellow heroes, and generally good people, all working together, cleaning, repairing, and redecorating the Justice Ducks headquarters had been such an uplifting experience. Beyond anything else, being a part of this incredible team, this historic moment, would never ever leave him.

\--------

Drake hadn’t been able to stop himself from smiling as he had related his story, the story of the first time their team had met in their headquarters, the incredible feeling of togetherness and purpose, the humor, the laughter, the joy!

“That’s wonderful Drake!” said Gladstone with a clap. “Being part of that team must have been a wonderful experience.”

“Yes,” Drake said, then sighed, once again filling with sorrow at what he had lost. “But it's gone now. It's all over.”

“Gone but not forgotten!” said Gladstone, moving a little closer. “I would love to hear more stories about the Justice Ducks?”

“Why?” Drake shook his head bitterly. “It’s all done with. I’m not a part of that anymore.”

“But you _were_ ,” Gladstone said fiercely. “You know, my Uncle Scrooge is one of the most famous explorers in the world, I think he’s been to more places than I have, and I consider myself a devoted world traveller. His stories have been recounted many times over, and I know that he longs to be able to go back out to the Yukon and relive all those times past. No, he is no longer a hard working treasure hunter looking to make his first million, but that doesn’t stop him from enjoying those memories, or sharing them again and again. So don’t punish yourself by denying yourself those memories. Embrace them, they are a part of who you are. And people would love to hear them, I know I would.”

Drake felt his skepticism and desperate need to relive those years at war with one another, and Gladstone threw him a bone.

“I’m feeling a bit peckish. Let's go up to the top level’s eatery for some breakfast, and you can tell me some stories. I’m sure you have at least one that will make me belly laugh.”

“Oh, I have a doozy,” Drake said, instantly knowing which story of Justice Ducks _always_ got a laugh from people. “And it's been a couple days since I’ve eaten much of anything. Breakfast sounds amazing!”

“Goodness Drake, we’ll have to fix that immediately. This ship has the most incredible crepes…with strawberries and cream...”

Drake was suddenly dying for strawberries and cream. With absolutely no resistance whatsoever he followed Gladstone Gander up the stairs.


	3. The Case of The Invisible Snapper

The top level eatery was called the ‘Float Away Cafe’, located in an open square area with white wooden patio chairs and tables under red and blue striped sun umbrellas, and was festively decorated with flags and very patriotic red white and blue streamers. They sat at a table right beside the railing, overlooking the river itself, and Drake felt himself infinitely comfortable and at peace as he dolloped cream over his strawberries and scooped them up with mouthfuls of abundant crepe. He hadn’t realized how hungry he had been, but tried not to gobble his food. He had to remind himself he was eating with the future ‘Richest Duck In The World’, whose elegant mannerisms and generosity put him to shame.

Gladstone Gander was, in a word, _gracious_ ; he tipped the staff quite generously, complimented the chef, and said not a word about Drake having to repay him for the meal, which he charged to his frequent travellers credit card. Not that Drake felt he was in any position to object. His pride would never have allowed him to accept this generosity in the past. He had no pride left, just thanking the man over and over, miserably grateful before digging in.

“Yes, eat up, you have been hungry, haven’t you? Not today my friend, today indulge, I am happy to share my meals with my friends.”

Drake paused at this and looked up.

Friend. It was almost an accusation. This man would be dangerously close to being Drake’s new best friend if he ever bought him crepes this good again. Experience had taught him that friends with benefits could be a terrible temptation.

“Well, speaking of friends, I should tell you, this story I’m going to share is about how Justice Ducks got its first batch of new members, it takes place not long after Morgana bought the library.”

“Awesome,” Gladstone grinned. “Because Justice Ducks has members all over the state now, I understand?”

“Well, in a few more towns besides St Canard and Duckburg…” Drake sat back in his deck chair, the fizzy water in its glass an accusation that he hadn’t drank any. He’d been too busy wolfing down crepe. “Spoonerville, Cape Suzette, the big places…”

“Incredible...wonderful!” Gladstone couldn’t seem any more thrilled. “Tell me, who was your first new hero after the original five?”

“Rubber Chicken,” Darkwing didn’t have to think hard on that. “He showed up at the door one day as the Giz and I were having...well...let's call it one of our ‘usual’ arguments...”

\---------

“You?! You couldn’t lead your way out of a paper bag! Much less lead a hero team!”

“I led us against Negaduck didn’t I?”

“Gentlemen…”

“That was me deferring to the local boy,” Gizmoduck continued. “I have much more leadership presence than you!”

“Hey hey hey! I have plenty of presence!!!”

“Gentlemen! Please!” Morgana inserted herself physically between Darkwing Duck and Gizmoduck, causing Darkwing to leap back in instinct.

Morgana's anger was usually followed by bolts of magic. Gizmoduck, not having such instincts, was still advancing.

“Morgana, this matter must be addressed, the city of St Canard and Duckburg need to be reassured that our team is being led by a _qualified_ professional!”

“Qualified professional!” Darkwing lost his instinct for self-preservation and launched forward. “I’ll give you ‘qualified’, you egomaniacal bucket of bolts!”

“Enough!” Morgana’s magic bolted down between them and Gizmoduck actually pulled Darkwing out of the way by his cape to save him. “Gentlemen! We have a guest!!!!”

Both men stopped in their tracks as Morgana pointed towards the doorway where Stegmutt and Neptunia were both greeting their reluctant visitor, a shivering skinny rooster in a bright red and blue costume.

“Rubber Chicken!” said Darkwing.

“Oh, hello Darkwing!” said he, as if he hadn’t just witnessed the two most famous heroes in the city arguing over leadership of the Justice Ducks. “I just came around to see if you were looking for more heroes. I would like to join.”

“Wonderful!” said Morgana, and she gave a not-so-subtle glare to both men before moving forward. “Welcome to Justice Ducks and Friends.”

“Yes, welcome!!” said Gizmoduck. “What are your qualifications?”

“He’s a hero,” Darkwing said, and jumped in front of Gizmoduck. “And I’m his qualification, I’ve seen him in action!”

“Thank you Darkwing, I hope I can prove my abilities as a…”

“Darkwing! Have you seen this!”

Gosalyn Mallard interrupted with her usual timing, running into Headquarters with Honker Muddlefoot and the rest of the Darkwing Duck fan club, now calling themselves the Justice Ducks Fan Club. She was waving a newspaper in front of her and looked stricken. 

“Somebody’s been writing awful stories about you!”

“As usual,” Darkwing sighed, and took the paper. “Lets see,” he flipped pages as the rest of the team gathered around. “‘Citizens of this city can be assured that no criminals will ever be caught thanks to the _fumbling mess_ that is the Justice Ducks?’ What the heck?”

There was a picture of Stegmutt destroying some library shelves on one of the days they had been cleaning out the library, and the by line said ‘Clumsy heroes and a spider infested library points to the start of a new low for the crime fighters of St Canard.’

“I didn’t mean to do that!” Stegmutt said, crying loudly. “Why me? Why, why, why?”

He stamped his feet and the building shook.

“Hold on Stegmutt,” Darkwing clearly recalled nobody had been there besides them. “Where did these pictures come from? There was nobody else in the Headquarters that day but us!”

“These photos must have been doctored!” Gizmoduck’s mechanical arm shot out to grab the newspaper in order for him to read it himself. “Oh, well, that is a rather dashing angle of me…”

“Can you please for just one moment think about something else besides yourself! This is serious!” Darkwing grabbed the paper back. “Our security has been breached!”

“I’ll double check the security cameras,” Morgana said fretfully. “But I fear these may have been taken before we installed them.”

“Everyone, spread out and start looking for clues!”

“Wonderful!” said Rubber Chicken suddenly. “My first job as a Justice Duck!”

“And Friends,” added Neptunia, pointedly. “I’ll go with you!”

“Stegmutt,” said Darkwing. “You look around outside and see if you can spot anybody watching the building…”

But after an hour of searching they found their hands clean of any evidence, and were filled with a feeling that something innocent had been sullied, namely Stegmutt’s feelings, who cried despite their reassurances that the old shelves would have been carted off to the dump anyways.

“Let's start in on this again tomorrow morning,” Darkwing said.

“I agree,” Gizmoduck enthused, “We need to start talking about leadership, we have a new member after all.”

“I agree,” said Morgana, and before either Darkwing or Gizmoduck could continue. “And I think we should have an election to determine leadership. A proper election, we campaign, and have a ballot box and all that.”

“The Justice Ducks fan club volunteers to act as the Vote Counters!" Honker suddenly called out, surprising them all. He was usually so nervous and shy.

“Great idea Honker!” said Darkwing. “That way we know it's going to be a fair count,” he turned a glare at Gizmoduck.

“Just what are you implying buddy?”

“Wonderful,” said Morgana firmly, once again standing between them, and this time Gizmoduck did wheel back a bit. “Everyone runs for leadership who wishes to run. We’ll vote in lets say, ten days?”

“If I win I’m going to change the name of our team,” Neptunia said.

“Um, is it alright if I don’t want to be in charge?” Stegmutt asked, looking shy.

“Perfectly all right, Stegmutt,” said Darkwing. “You still get to vote.”

“Can the fan club vote too?” asked Gosalyn. “I mean, we do run the newsletter, and are collecting the donations...and running errands and…”

“Yes, you may vote,” said Darkwing, clenching his teeth. “You have all been doing a good job.”

“What about you Rubber Chicken?” said Morgana. “Will you be running for team president?”

“Well, uh, I just joined, I think I’ll stay out of the running,” said Rubber Chicken. “It’s just so exciting, being a part of the team!”

“Well then, it's just the four of us…” Morgana gave a light hearted chuckle, and that was when it hit Darkwing that he was going to be competing against his own girlfriend for leadership. “May the best hero or heroine win!”

Little did they know how complicated this election was about to become.

\--------

“All right yous Eggheads,” Steelbeak, rooster supervillain, was pacing the warehouse hideout with the slow sauntering grace of the proud and posturing peacock that he clearly was channelling, feeling particularly dashing in his smoking jacket, thank you very much. “Listen up! This is the plan, and I would not take it upon myself to remind you of how severely cross F.O.W.L. has been with our efforts as of late so pay attention!”

Some Eggheads, who were distractedly reading a magazine with girly pictures, suddenly jumped up to their feet at attention. Steelbeek wandered over to them to pick up the magazine and flip through idly.

“Not bad...oh hello Miss Divinity!” he suddenly realized himself when his men snickered, and tossed the volume down on the floor. “All right here’s the deal. Darkwing Dinbat and Gizmodoofus have started a club for heroes downtown called Justice Ducks. And they’ve taken over the central library’s old building as their Headquarters…” he straightened himself, proudly, and adjusted his tail behind him and gave the ground a rooster-like scratch in his momentary lapse of stress related behaviour. “And you don’t need to be an expert to guess that F.O.W.L. does not like this change in situations, so clearly, our mission is obvious,” he pointed to the nearby storage crate, where the pile of explosives was sitting. “We are going to destroy that building, and make sure each and every one of those caped crazies is still inside when we do.”

He laughed, his tommy gun cackles peppering the air, and the rest of the goons joined in, their voices carrying up to the rafters.

“All right you goons, I need two groups, one group to sneak in, and another group to come with me and distract these do gooders while we set them up the bomb. Volunteers?”

\-------

In the days that followed the initial campaign announcement, the Headquarters soon filled with more people than expected. Along with Rubber Chicken came all of his hero friends, Glu Gal, Sneezemaster and Banana Boy, all of them wanting to join the new Super Hero Club, so to speak. Ordinary citizens came in to join the fan club, mostly kids, and every time a new member showed up Gizmoduck and Darkwing would greet them at the door, with campaign buttons and a copious amount of boasting about their abilities as the potential future team leader. It had been agreed that the Fan Club should also get to vote, which meant that Honker was unusually busy registering people coming in for the ballot. Meanwhile, Morgana had set Glu Gal to repairing damaged furniture that Stegmutt had accidentally destroyed, had Sneezmaster sneezing away dust bunnies in the library attic to make room for crime fighting supplies and set Banana Boy to slipping large boxes in and out of the building with his super slip-up powers.

Darkwing Duck had to admit, he was impressed with her ability to find ways to bring these heroes, and their seemingly unheroic powers, into the group. Nonetheless, Darkwing Duck was on a mission, a mission to teach Gizmoduck a lesson about who was the number one hero of this city, none other than Darkwing Duck himself. He printed off large posters of himself to plaster up around Headquarters, and the city at large, handed out buttons, and gave rousing pep talks on the Headquarters stairs. His enthusiasm was matched only by Gizmoduck’s enthusiasm for running right over him with posters and speeches of his own.

It was on one day that they were all openly debating in the central area of the HQ, that Gosalyn and the Fan Club came running in again, and once again she was brandishing a newspaper.

“They’re at it again sir!” said Honker, looking winded and flushed. “More bad stories!”

Darkwing took the paper, and was startled to see a picture of Morgana, shooting lighting down out of her hands in order to separate Gizmoduck and he from fighting.

“‘Backstabbing and violence punctuates Heroes' fight for the Top!’ What the hell is this?”

“It looks like they got my good side again,” Gizmoduck said, looking over Darkwing’s shoulder. “But, how did they get this picture of me, I’m not getting any royalties from these pictures! I should sue!”

“Looks like you got your priorities straight…” Darkwing said with his teeth clenched together.

“Oh dear, it seems we still have a security problem in our Headquarters,” Morgana said, looking highly alarmed. “Let's check our security cameras and see what was recorded.”

But, to their shock and dismay, there was nothing there. No evidence to suggest anybody had been taking pictures. Not even the shadow of a person.

“It's a ghost!!” said Gosalyn, brandishing the newspaper, which she rolled up into a de-facto sword to brandish towards the ceiling. “The ghost of the librarian getting her revenge for unpaid library book fines!”

“Now now, I assure you, I did a seance before buying the library and I’m certain there are no ghosts living here,” Morgana said.

Before any of them could continue Rubber Chicken with Neptunia came running into the room.

“Morgana!” he shouted. “Darkwing! Hurry! We’ve got trouble!”

“Hah! Trouble is my middle name,” said Darkwing. “Wherever there’s trouble you call D…”

“This is serious!” said Neptunia interrupting. “We were patrolling the streets like you suggested we should, and we saw Steelbeak, and his goons, breaking into a building!!”

“Then it is up to us to stop the villains where they stand!” said Gizmoduck. “Justice Ducks! Assemble!”

“Hey hey hey!!” said Darkwing. “Until the election I’M the team leader and I say the catchphrase!”

“Oh all right, Darkwing, have it your way!”

Darkwing coughed, and said ‘ahem’ and then pointed his hand to the air.

“Justice Ducks! Assemble!”

But everyone was already out of the door.

“We’ll stay here just in case!” said Gosalyn and the Fan Club. “Good luck Justice Ducks!”

\-------

The Green Joy Organic Supermarket was quiet when the group slipped in, thanks to Banana Boy’s quietly slicking the back alley so they could glide down it quietly, like a dream. Launchpad had gone to get the police whilst they were busy detaining the bad guys. Darkwing directed Glu Gal to seal the potential escape route behind them, and put his finger to his lips.

“Spread out everyone, they have to be somewhere here…”

A hush fell over the group. Stegmutt and Sneezemaster had been left outside to secure the area, and they could hear the latter's ‘kerchoo’s’ from outside.

“She’s gonna be miserable that she was left behind,” Rubber Chicken said glumly, as another sneeze punctuated the emptiness of the grocery store.

“Well I was counting on the element of surprise here,” Darkwing said, feeling guilty already.

“And we could have used her super sneeze abilities to blow the villains away,” Gizmoduck countered. “Face it Darkwing, the decisions you make as team leader are not on the ball…a little selfish if you ask me...”

“Can we please not start this now!” Darkwing clenched his teeth. “I sent my sidekick away too didn’t I?”

“Having a bit of trouble there with your group Darkwing Dingus?”

“No I’m not having a ‘bit of trouble’ with...Steelbeak!!!”

The rottenly reclining Rooster had been watching them from his perch of a grocery store display, a baggy of tofu fruits snack in one hand.

“Yeah, I gotta hand it to these people, if I ever needed to lose weight, I’d shop here.”

“Unhand that fabulously healthy fruit snack you cackling criminal!”

“Ah well,” Steelbeak jumped up as he was surrounded by the team. “I suppose I could always get in a fast workout. Boys!” he snapped his fingers and they were the ones being surrounded, by Eggheads.

“Justice Ducks!” Darkwing pointed his finger up. “Let’s get dangerous!”

“Hey!” said Gizmoduck, putting his foot...wheel...down. “We are not using your catchphrase for the team! Stick to the other one!”

“Boys, teach these argumentative annoyances what F.O.W.L. teamwork looks like!”

Steelbeak had never been more right in his life. Teamwork would have gone a lot better for them. A lot better in the long run. Morgana was doing well with her magic lightning, until two Eggheads threw organic honey down on her from the top of a shelf sticking her to the floor. Another Egghead soon had Rubber Chicken tangled up and tripping over rolling fruit in the produce section. Glu Gal was tricked into jumping into a big display of cracker boxes and getting them stuck everywhere. Steelbeak meanwhile, led Darkwing and Gizmoduck around the checkout counters where he tricked Gizmoduck into mounting the checkout belt.

“Yous is going for a ride Giz,” said Steelbeak, hitting a button, and suddenly Gizmoduck found his wheel revving until he was flung backwards and flew straight into Morgana. Her magic flew out in shock, causing Gizmoduck’s circuits to overload, and unable to stop his forward motion, they collided, knocking Morgana out and giving the Giz a nasty flat tire.

“Darkwing,” Steelbeak stopped him in his tracks. “Your team is now captured,” he pointed to the window, where more Eggheads were pointing guns at Sneezemaster and Steggmutt. “I suggest you come with us...quietly.”

\-------

Justice Ducks Headquarters was quiet when they arrived. Gosalyn and the kids were already tied up, the robbery had clearly been a distraction to get the Justice Ducks away from their Headquarters. Strings of dynamite were festooned around every pillar, and across every shelf. Darkwing was allowed to carry the unconscious Morgana and lay her down next to Gosalyn.

“Look after her…”

“Over here Darkwing!” Steelbeak pointed to where they were chaining up Gizmoduck to a pillar. “I want you two together at the end, exactly as it should be...hehehehehe!”

Darkwing glared at Steelbeak, as he was chained.

“I’m so sorry Darkwing! We should have worked together,” said Gizmoduck, his suit of armor looking rather miserable with one dead punching mechanical arm hanging limply from his chest.

"I shouldn’t have been so jealous of you,” Darkwing admitted. “You’re so popular...I was blind with the need to prove myself superior in some way!”

“We’ll find a way out of this Wingy, I just don’t know how!”

The Steelbeak and his goons were now conferring as to what should be done about the police. Whilst they were talking, Darkwing was suddenly alarmed to see the key to the cuffs floating, almost calmly, towards him. Gizmoduck saw it too. They stayed silent.

“Psssst,” a disembodied voice said. “Open your beak!”

_Oh God, Gosalyn was right, this library really is haunted!_

Darkwing obliged the voice, and he mouthed the floating key into his big bill and shut it just as the guards turned to look at them. Darkwing smiled. 

“All right, we’ve decided, we’ll take a hostage, and why not Darkwing Duck? We can throw him from the chopper once we’re away!” Steelbeak jaunted over to him laughing.

Darkwing mentally panicked. Then he remembered something, from a magic show he had been a part of for charity...Morgana had been on hand as his assistant to slip him a key before he was locked into a box…by kissing him.

She was still unconscious. She would choke if he tried to pass her the key!

“Uh, Steelbeak,” Darkwing put pride and all other considerations straight out the window. “Before I go, can I say...goodbye? To someone I...have so much pride and respect for! Someone I care about, a great deal...”

“No tricks Darkwing Duck!”

Darkwing pulled himself up, looked Gizmoduck straight in his startled eye, and kissed the man right on his bill...passing him the key. He prayed very hard the man hadn’t swallowed it.

Several people’s mouths dropped to the floor. Gizmoduck was bright red in embarrassment.

“Oh well now, I never would have pegged it, then again, that costume...” Steelbeak laughed.

“Chopper’s ready on the roof…” said an Egghead, and they all marched off, Darkwing looking back over his shoulder, longingly, at his friends.

\-------

“What was that all about?” Gosalyn said as soon as the Eggmen had left.

“One moment,” Gizmoduck winced and bent and eventually was able to pass the key to his hand and unlock his chains. “Somebody needs to tell Darkwing to use mouthwash! Blech!”

He quickly undid all their locked hands.

“Hurry, it’ll blow any minute!”

“No it won’t,” said Honker, adjusting his glasses. “While you’ve been unlocking our cuffs, somebody has been diffusing the dynamite.”

They looked up in shock to see that the wiring for the explosives was now cutting itself, one piece at a time along the wall.

“Wow, the library really is haunted!” said Gosalyn brightly. “Amazing, we have our own ghost!”

“Hurry team!” said Gizmoduck, putting his hand to the air. “We must save our leader from the jaws of certain doom!”

\---------

On the roof, Darkwing felt his amusement growing.

“This chopper isn’t big enough for everyone, you need to find your own way off the building!” Steelbeak pulled Darkwing towards the chopper.

“But boss!!”

It was the same song and dance with Steelbeak every time. Pride always goeth before the fall.

“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Darkwing said, provokingly. “Why does Steelbeak always get to go first huh guys?”

“Yeah, why is dat huh?” said one goon.

“Because I’m in charge!!” said Steelbeak.

“But you guys do all the work!”’ Darkwing pointed out. “And yet he wants you to risk your lives for his safety.”

“Yeah!

“You’re right!”

The distraction was working very well for Darkwing, as Steelbeak pushed him away in order to argue with his guys over who would be leaving on the chopper. They were thus surprised when the Justice Ducks appeared on the roof, in a glorious parade of heroes that made Darkwing’s heart soar.

“Hey!! How did you guys escape???”

“Justice Ducks!” Darkwing said, pointing at Steelbeak. “Disassemble that chopper!”

Stegmutt and Sneezemaster were only too happy to oblige, with Stegmutt colliding right with the bulk, Sneezemaster’s sneezing blowing off the propeller and the whole crunched mess going over the edge. 

“Dangit! Now how are we supposed to escape!” Steelbeak pointed his hand at Darkwing in rage. “Get them!”

“Glu Gal!” Darkwing dodged an attack. “Glu these Eggheads together!!”

She was happy to do so. Gizmoduck joined Darkwing in parrying punches with Steelbeak, whilst Rubber Chicken tied himself around another group of Eggheads. Stegmutt sat on his group, all of them screaming for mercy. Neptunia helped him tie them up with some of their own explosive wire. A dazed Morgana soon joined them on the roof, looking flushed.

“What is going on?”

“Morgana you’re all right!” Darkwing would have rushed to her, but Gizmoduck stopped him.

“Before you kiss your girlfriend, here,” and he handed Darkwing a breath mint from one of his gadget drawers.

A chorus of laughter very quickly followed.

Launchpad soon arrived with the confused police force, and Darkwing got the satisfaction of seeing Steelbeak and the Eggheads marched out in handcuffs. The local press took pictures, the Justice Ducks all standing arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder. Morgana asked the police if they could keep the dynamite, for future crime fighting use, as their funds for supplies were limited, and the police, not wanting to deal with that much TNT, were happy to oblige.

As their team returned inside to the Headquarters, Darkwing looked up at the ceiling with a ‘huh’.

“But I wonder, how did that happen? Where did that floating key come from?”

“And who defused the dynamite?” Honker added curiously.

“It was the ghost!!” said Gosalyn, acting dramatically. “Getting revenge on us mortals for taking over his library resting place!”

“Um actually,” a timid voice suddenly interrupted them, a sound of a shutter closing, a camera shutting off, and suddenly, appearing before them, small, shivering, and slightly red faced was…

“A little boy???”

The boy was about Gosalyn’s age, with hair just as red, a little black nose, freckles, and ears that were kind of mismatched in shape. He gave a whine, as most dogs did when they were nervous, and rubbed his nose.

“Hi,” he said, waving his hand. “My name is Bobby Snaps. My dad is Sizzle Snaps.”

“The editor of that gossip rag that’s been lying about us?” said Darkwing, feeling absolutely offended.

“Uh, yeah,” Bobby Snaps looked really sad. “My family is broke, and the newspaper was doing bad, so my dad’s boss told him to start making these bad stories, as bad as possible. He said he doesn’t want to, but it's the only way our paper makes money anymore, he’ll get fired if he doesn’t,” the boy looked so sad that Darkwing immediately felt guilty. “We were going to lose the house. It was a bad time for us...Well one day when I was in our attic looking for things to sell to make some money for my parents, I found this neato old camera!”

It was neat, an old camera with the film going in the big back door, with an accordion design, a classic from probably the early 1900s.

“When I turn it on and open the shutter, I turn invisible! Even the flash is invisible! And I can take all sorts of pictures. Well, I started taking pictures of people for dad, and our paper suddenly did so much better than before, we could eat again!”

Darkwing felt so horribly stricken, as the boy was so excited.

“My dad lets me take any pictures of any people I want, as long as I don’t tell anybody. But I knew, I wanted to take pictures of my heroes, the Justice Ducks! I...I’m sorry about the bad stories he writes. He doesn’t like it either…”

“Hmmm….Morgana, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I am,” she smiled. “I’m thinking the Justice Ducks fan club could use a young reporter with a camera, to help run our fan club newsletter!”

Bobby’s face brightened.

“And I think we should have a talk to his newspaper about these slanderous stories,” Darkwing looked at Giz. “Maybe they will be willing to mend their ways, with an exclusive interview from us?”

“I think old Sizzle Snaps sounds like a reasonable man,” he put his hands on his hips. “Let’s hope his boss will see reason!”

Bobby Snaps gave a happy jump and the Justice Ducks fan club all surrounded him to welcome him into the fold.

\------- 

The final days of the election wound down very nicely. Sizzle Snaps did indeed stop posting too many salacious stories in exchange for the exclusive, and thanked them for not telling the police about Bobby’s special camera. It had been in the family for years!

“As long as he uses it for good, and not greed,” Darkwing said.

The Justice Ducks headquarters were packed on election day. The Fan Club had way too many child members, there were only eight Justice Ducks, and so all of them had invited friends to be there for the election to celebrate. Honker had brought his own family, who would be in charge of the barbecue afterwards. Darkwing found himself dodging people as much as possible as they waited for the children to tally the votes.

“Are you nervous?” Morgana came over to Darkwing as they were waiting for Honker to finalize everything.

“Too nervous,” Darkwing shivered. “I know I was so hard on Giz...whatever happens though…we’re a team now. And he has the best breath mints.”

Morgana gave a hearty laugh, and kissed him, causing a few whistles before Honker got up to the podium.

“Can I have your attention please!!” he tapped the chalkboard they had set up for the tallying. “Its time for the announcing of the vote for leadership of the Justice Ducks!”

Both Bobby Snaps, invisible due to his camera, and his dad, with a normal camera, were taking pictures, and their snapping caused Honker to suddenly look nervous.

“Its all right Honkman,” said Launchpad. “You’re doing great.”

Honker nodded, and wiped his glasses again. 

“All right, in last place, sorry, with 12 votes, Neptunia!”

“Oh, well, darn,” she shrugged.

“I voted for you,” Stegmutt said, hugging her, and they shared a laugh.

“In third place, with 15 votes, Morgana Macawber!”

“Oh, well goodness me!” she stood up to accept the applause. “Thank you everyone!”

A silence, and Darkwing actually put his cape between his teeth.

“Finally, in second place with 17 votes, only one less vote than the winner...Gizmoduck!! Which means Darkwing Duck is our new Justice Ducks President with 18 votes!”

Darkwing blanked and then jumped up!

“Yes! I did it! I did it! I am the man! The terror that flaps in the night!”

“You won by one vote Darkwing,” Gosalyn said.

“Uh uh, yeah, thank you everyone for all the votes and…!” He offered his hand to Gizmoduck. “Thanks to my competition for running a really great race with me. Until next time?”

“You bet Wingy, and next time I’m going to cream you!”

They both laughed, and hugged and Darkwing allowed Morgana to float over, and press a kiss to his head.

“I voted for you,” Darkwing told her quietly. “You did a great job getting us together, making everyone a part of the team, we wouldn’t be here if not for you…”

Her eyes danced, and she kissed him deeply.

The room catcalled and cheered, and Darkwing gave his acceptance speech, which he had prepared with Honker’s help.

“Thank you everyone...We all wouldn’t be here if not for the team,” he looked over at Morgana with pride. “First I want to mention Morgana Macawber for buying this place on bank loan, we’re still paying off so donations can be given to Honker Muddlefoot and the Justice Ducks fan club to help us make our payments,” there was a titter of laughter and Honker waved his hand in the air. “And speaking of the fan club, we wouldn’t be a team if not for the advice of fan club president, Gosalyn Mallard, give it up!”

Applauds, and Gosalyn jumped to her feet to bow and take the credit where it was due.

“I severely also want to thank my sidekick Launchpad, who has been tirelessly devoted to me and faithfully helping me all these years, you are always a part of the team, I hope you know that.”

Launchpad cheered and people patted him on the back.

They all got a note in his speech. All of them.

“Neptunia and her incredible determination to make the team open to all different kinds of people, and Stegmutt, whose kindness and willingness to help and humbleness puts me to shame. To Rubber Chicken for bringing all his friends and bringing more talent into the group. Glu Gal for sticking it through to the end of each day with us. And Banana Boy for slipping quietly into our hearts...and Sneezemaster, who just blows me away with her enthusiasm. Thank you so much!

“And finally, to one of my greatest inspirations, though he may not realize it, Gizmoduck, you are an amazing hero, and it is always, always, with infinite amazement and deep pride that I go into battle by your side. Thank you.”

Gizmoduck’s mechanical arm escaped from his suit in the company of a kleenex, which he blew his nose with in spectacular fashion.

“Wingy…” he could only get that word out.

“Thank you, finally, to the citizens of St Canard, you are why we do what we do. Protecting the innocent, bringing justice to the criminals of this city that cause you grief. That is why we are the Justice Ducks and Friends. Thank you!”

Applauds followed, and the celebrations began, and the Headquarters soon filled with the smell of Herb Muddlefoot’s barbeque, outside the front of the building for safety reasons. People mingled, everyone talked to the press, and the mayor dropped by to have a word.

Darkwing was just in the middle of reassuring the mayor they would do things ‘right’ for the city, when he found another, familiar face, by his side.

Jay Gander Hooter, director of S.H.U.S.H.

“Nicely done, Darkwing, excellent speech,” he said, in his esteemed and elegant manner. “We at S.H.U.S.H. see great promise in what you are doing here, and will be watching you more closely in the future.”

There were overtones in that comment that didn’t need to be said. A spy agency watching them put so much more pressure on them to be a great team and protective force for justice in the city of St Canard.

Unflappable, Darkwing only felt his confidence grow at this sign of trust from such a well respected man.

“Thanks,” he felt like he’d been saying that a million times, and he meant it. “We’ll do our absolute very best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, I wanted to have the flashbacks to good old times have that Darkwing Duck cartoon episode feel, whilst modern action has the more serious tone of the story I'm telling. I hope I was able to convey that well here.
> 
> I loved Rubber Chicken and his Mutant Friends. We needed way more of them, and never got them, but they were going to be included in the never produced spin off show 'Justice Ducks'. I really really wish they had made that series. But now I get to write it myself! :D
> 
> And as I was writing this, I was craving strawberries and crepes soo badly. I'm sorry if you do now too.


	4. Fire and Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken liberty with time in this story, because I want modern ducks to be using cell phones now. But maybe this is early iPhone era type cell phones? I am just terrible with time and the passage of it. Lets say Drake Mallard and Gladstone Gander are middle aged, in their forties, sound good? Good.

Gladstone Gander leaned forward over his now empty crepe plate, listening intently to the story of the Justice Ducks, and their first new members. The invisibility camera, Steelbeak and his dynamite plot, the election, and the...kiss to pass the key. He was totally mesmerized.

And the dynamic energy of Drake Mallard as he recounted this story was magnetic. He could feel the man was just full of stories. Of amazing adventure and daring do. Bravery and loyalty and incredible excitement seemed to pour out of the duck’s every expression, from first word to last.

And, true to word, the story did evoke a belly laugh from Gladstone.

“Oh dear lord, what an outrageous group you had!” he snorted and pounded his knee. “That was a great story, Drake!”

“I’m glad you liked it,” the man leaned back in his chair, pushing his untouched cup of mineral water around in quiet contemplation before finally taking it in both hands to cup to his lips.

Gladstone took a mental note at this action, but didn’t ask about it, Drake looked like he was barely willing to even hold the glass, let alone drink from it, a nervousness had filled his eyes the minute the glass was to his lips.

“You see,” Gladstone leaned forward. “You do have good stories to tell.”

“I do,” Drake said, smiling with a sentimental look. “I wish my stories weren’t so difficult to share.”

“Ah, you should write a book,” Gladstone said, and raised his own mostly drained glass of bubbly for a toast.

With a hesitant look, Drake put his glass, with both hands, out to toast. It was such an odd way of holding a glass of water, perhaps his hands were unsteady from leftover nerves from telling his story?

“Lets go back down to second level, and we can see the boat turning around, for the east bank trip up to the bay.”

“All right.”

\-------

The ferry was making a very wide turn on the river, which gave an impressive view of the river length, which was sparkling with the light of the sun and dotted with many boats. Gladstone had pulled out his cell phone to take pictures.

“Ah, I wish I had a camera…” Drake sighed.

“One moment,” Gladstone un-shouldered his backpack. “My luck leads me to doing things that I don’t always understand the reason for, and then later on, I discover there was a reason for it.”

“Come again?”

“Here, take this,” he routed around in the mesh bag for an elaborate second, and then pulled out a little black box with an orange cardboard wrap. A disposable film camera.

Drake was astounded.

“They still make these?” he laughed and took it, reluctantly. “Are you sure I can have it?”

“Sure I’m sure. You will want to take pictures when we get to the isles, mementos of the trip we took.”

“Wow, thank you. You are way too generous, I could get used to that,” Drake quickly took the long-wise picture of the river, delighting in not knowing if the picture had turned out or not. The analog experience was one that always delighted him. He remembered going to Bobby Snap’s house to see how he developed his picture film. It had been awhile since he’d had that particular experience. He had been miserable without a working cell phone.

“Well then, which side do you want to take?”

Drake looked back and forth, and sighed.

“There’s nothing to see on this side, but construction…”

“Oh yes,” Gladstone leaned on the railing, looking out towards the shoreline, where large orange and yellow machines were working, digging up the earth. “What are they building there?”

“Nothing yet,” said Drake, nervously hoping the man would just move to the other side by his own violation. “They have to replace all the old clay water pipes that were seeping the runoff from Glomgold’s damaged tailing pond. Then they can build houses for the people in the allotment.”

“Wait...so this place here…?”

“...is Site Zero, yes,” Drake frowned, and found himself huddling closer to Gladstone Gander, but not for warmth. He could see the sudden concern in his eyes. “I’ve been there a few times to inspect the work they’re doing. But, I sold my own plot to help the Muddlefoots. It wasn’t as if I needed it anymore.”

“Oh...Drake I’m sorry. You’ll have a job and a home of your own again, you need to believe that.”

“Without my daughter?” Drake just shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Silence, and Gladstone took a deep breath.

“You don’t have to share, but not a lot of people know your perspective, about what happened that day. I wasn’t in Calisota at the time. I was in Europe...with my cousins looking for the triplets. So basically all I saw was Lockjaw’s footage of the wreckage and the trials and all of that.”

“Lockjaw did a very good job at reporting the truth, mostly. A few things he got wrong, but they weren’t really important...I guess what the public didn’t know, was that the Justice Ducks weren’t just there, trying to help, that we didn’t randomly show up and interfere...we were recruited to evacuate the area…”

“By who?”

“By S.H.U.S.H and the F.B.I.,” Drake’s voice became thick.

“Are you sure you want to tell me about this?”

“Yes, I think I do want to tell you, I want someone to know the truth…”

\-------

Memory was hell. It was raw. It was unforgiving. It was as real as actual daily life, existing as if outside of space and time in a reality all of its own.

Darkwing Duck made his way into Headquarters with Launchpad, well aware that the place was crowded with just about every member he could name. And there were F.B.I. agents standing against the walls, a fair number of S.H.U.S.H. spies, and up at the front of the room at the main desk, where Darkwing would usually stand, to give instructions, was Jay Gander Hooter, and a man he didn’t recognize. He was a tall skinny dog, brown furred, with a severe expression on his face. He had glasses and a blue suit and was standing casually at Darkwing’s desk, arms crossed, one leg in front of the other leaning against it.

Darkwing was proud that he had been made president of the Justice Ducks again this year, as presidency was annual for their team. He had been president a few times since the first year, Gizmoduck and Morganna had taken reign in other years. They all had very good reputations with S.H.U.S.H. Maybe not so much with the F.B.I..

“Is this all of them?” said the strange man, upon seeing Darkwing Duck arrive.

“Yes I believe so?” said Jay Gander with a sigh.

“All right, close the doors…”

Darkwing turned, astounded, as two agents he hadn’t known were behind him closed and locked the library doors.

All the windows were shut. Darkwing wondered if Bobby Snaps was in the room, quietly watching them all.

“Good afternoon everyone,” said the man in the blue suit, and immediately introduced himself. “My name is Dalton MacArthur, I am the director of the F.B.I.’s terrorist investigations branch. I am here to recruit and deputize you, temporarily, for a mission of grave and utmost importance, which we will get to in a moment. First...I will turn the floor over to Doctor Bellum to explain a bit of very important science necessary for understanding the serious nature of this mission. Doctor.”

Doctor Sarah Bellum, a S.H.U.S.H. scientist with black hair and specs, who was very much familiar to him, looked severely happy despite the severe company she was in the presence of.

“Thank you sir,” she moved forward. “I am here to talk to you today about sound vibrations…”

And over the course of twenty minutes, Doctor Bellum broke down into easy bites of information, the science behind sound waves and recent advances in sonic weaponry. It turned out that sound vibrations could have potentially very devastating effects when combined with other destructive military technologies.

And...that was the catch.

“Thank you Doctor,” MacArthur moved back into the spot she had been standing in. “The United States government, like many other world powers, has been experimenting with non-nuclear weaponry for military use for a very long time. I will spare you the moral, ethical quandary in discussing whether we should have been doing so, most people in the military agree that alternatives to nuclear weapons are always preferred. Having said that, I would like to tell you that we did, in fact, develop a sound vibration based weapon, a bomb, of potentially destructive capabilities...currently in the prototype stage...for use in future military operations. Specially designed to take out large enemy military bases. And I’m afraid that weapon has been stolen.”

Darkwing really had to suppress himself from screaming, ‘Why? Why make more and more weapons to kill one another?’ MacArthur had already given the official position and clearly wasn’t going to entertain any conversations about ethics, so there was no point. But Darkwing was already decidedly very angry about the situation. He knew, without even looking behind him, that the Justice Ducks were too.

“Gentlemen,” Jay Gander Hooter addressed the Justice Ducks seriously, his manner grievous. “The F.B.I. and S.H.U.S.H. will be in charge of locating and destroying the bomb. Your mission is to evacuate the people in that neighborhood where we believe the terrorists are taking refuge. Your mission is only to evacuate. Do not, I repeat, do _not_ go near the bomb. Take care to inform us if you see any suspected terrorists, but do not engage them unless they engage first! They are all potentially armed with a remote trigger mechanism for the weapon. Always be alert. I wish you good luck, and may God be with us all.”

MacArthur very quickly deputized them, and pointed to the desk, where two Feds placed piles and piles of evacuation orders to be handed to each citizen. Jay Gander Hooter conversed quietly with Darkwing for a few moments, handing him a micro radio so that Jay Gander Hooter and S.H.U.S.H. could communicate with him if need be, before handing him the maps and other information he would need for the evacuation. The doors were unlocked and everyone that wasn’t Justice Ducks exited with a grave silence that befitted the situation. As soon as they were gone, a loud number of voices filled the air with the outrage that Darkwing had been fully expecting.

“All right people, all right!” Darkwing jumped onto his desk where MacArthur had been sitting, and called for order. “We’ll work in teams to evacuate, we don’t have time to discuss the moral implications of our government building weapons of mass destruction. I want everyone to pick a partner. Morgana I’ll go with you. I want all sidekicks ready to lead evacuees to safety and direct traffic. I don’t want the air group to be seen above by terrorists who might set off the bomb, so once you reach your assigned location, stay on the ground. Underground group and sea group, same situation,” he gave a smile to Neptunia, who pretty much ruled the sewer and river routes these days. “I’ll let Morgana assign streets to people...Avian Way for us Morg...and everyone! Do not stray from our mission, please, please, do not stray from our mission! They are trusting us with this mission, we need to show the Federal government and S.H.U.S.H. that we can be trusted to work with their agents on a serious threat. Understood?”

People jumped in the air, whistled and raised their hands into the air. Darkwing noted Gizmoduck looking rather annoyed. So did Nightswan and a few others.

“We need to keep on our toes, no matter our personal feelings about all this, many lives are at risk. Think of the people as you work today. Justice Ducks! Dismissed!”

\---------

It was always a little unnerving to go to a person’s door, and to have them immediately say they are going to call the cops. Darkwing Duck, however, had nerves of steel, and this was his street, Avian Way. He had picked it specifically to go make sure Gosalyn was out, and Morganna was moving along with him, on the other side of the street, the two of them making a very good team. The evacuation was going rather poorly, suburban people like these didn’t really trust the Justice Ducks as much as the city dwellers who saw them in action every day, but he hoped, if word got around that people were leaving, if they saw it on the tv...

Before leaving, Neptunia had quietly pulled him aside and asked him if she could bring a friend who was interested in joining, but scared to be seen by anyone. He had reluctantly agreed, pairing her with Stegmutt as well, and she promised her friend would stay in the sewers mostly, maybe just being a part of the action would maybe help him gain some nerve. More team members were always welcome, but this was a tense situation, so he assigned her group to a street nearby where he could keep an eye on things. He had yet to see Neptunia’s friend…

_Maybe I should let her deal with it...Shy people and me have always had a bit of a...problematic...relationship._

Not that he would get many chances to check in with them anyway. Darkwing watched as Morganna approached their house on Avian Way to check for Gosalyn, and was filled with relief as she went inside herself at a lack of answer from the doorbell. He was quite relieved she had taken that side of the street because it meant he didn’t have to deal with the Muddlefoots himself, Morgana would get to them next.

Over the micro-radio, he could hear the scratchy orders Jay Gander was giving to his people, and was in awe that this man trusted him with such potentially secret information.

It was mostly boring. Specifically, it was traffic directions for agents on the road.

“Take the east route, Derrick, you’ll get there faster…”

That comment stood out amongst the others, for Derrick Blunt was mostly retired, and a really dear old friend of his. S.H.U.S.H. had pulled in all their people for this mission. He wondered if he’d see him again...

He had just passed out another evacuation paper, to a very annoyed looking man with a toupee, when he felt it. Both he and the man with the toupee looked at each other, and then they both ran in opposite directions, the man back into his house and Darkwing down out to the street.

It started with a heavy thud that rebounded. Like a heavy boot being dropped onto the ground. Or the vibrations of floorboards when people were dancing to that heavy new music, that thump thump thump stuff that Gosalyn and all her friends danced to. A sound like a rolling freight train speeding down the tracks filled his ears. He turned, and saw the shockwave front approaching just in time to dive to the ground, covering himself with his cape and bracing for impact.

As the shockwave ripped passed, buildings shattered and collapsed. Dust in a stormcloud covered everything and blinded his vision. He felt the pressure in the air change as if a big giant had come in and sucked out all the oxygen and he briefly felt as if his chest would collapse before the wavefront itself rolled off and he was overwhelmed by the sudden flood back of oxygen, breathing again. The experimental weapon, the sonic vibrational wave, was not radioactive, but he was certainly fooled, he felt hot, sore, burning...he was burning…

He was on fire. A lamp post had shorted when it had fallen over and set the ground alight. He shrieked and jumped up in time to stamp out his cape and hat and took another deep rational breath of air. As the quaking air stilled Darkwing became increasingly aware of another sound rising over the night…

Sirens. Loud call sirens from the city proper itself, the emergency hurricane and tidal wave warning sirens, joined by police sirens, the loud screaming of ambulances, the fire department...he picked himself up, put himself together, and assessed.

“Inventory. One horrified hero, check. One burned uniform. Check. One broken neighborhood. Oh God.”

Shock. He was in shock. He could barely focus. He was turning around in circles, again and again, and not seeing anything but rubble and burning debris. He felt his breath hitch and he suddenly felt a deadly thought, a feeling, a sickly feeling, down in the twisted acidic pit of his stomach where it had risen up to from the depths of hell.

“Gosalyn!” he screamed, and started climbing over rubble, climbing in what he thought had been the direction of his home.

Wood fragments, stone and brickwork from entirely different parts of the suburbs had been brought here by the blast. Everything had been flattened, thrown outward to land where it would. He didn’t recognize his street at all, he was only aware of the beating of his heart, pounding the pavement, his webbed feet in agony…

Here was the drive...his house...here was his car, buried under the shreds of what was his garage, and possibly parts of the neighbour’s too.

“Gosalyn!” He began grabbing debris with his hands, screaming, voice increasing in volume with his hysteria. “Gosalyn!”

A feeling of movement, a sudden surge upwards from the pile of debris he was on, and he jumped and ran and made the street just as Morganna Macawber, his beautiful lover, pushed up with her magic from the ground and blasted the debris on top of her away from herself, the curled up form of Gosalyn taking shelter at her feet.

Morgana was deathly pale. Her hair was white, and flowing free from her head. Her eyes were red.

He knew. In that instant he knew exactly what she had sacrificed to save his daughter, and he felt such an enduring love and warmth for her, and such sorrow that he almost forgot himself.

For a moment, Morgana was very very still, floating on the air in an almost detached, unearthly way, and then she winced, the sun had snuck through the shockwave debris and she was covering her head, her face, and fleeing under the wreckage for shelter. His stomach sank once more into the pits of all hell.

_Morgana...oh god my love. Oh god..._

Gosalyn’s head rose up at Morgana’s sudden retreat, rising at last to find him with big soulful green eyes, and it was the most beautiful and relieving sight that Drake Mallard had ever seen. She got up to her feet, her face smudged, her clothes torn, red hair askew, and started running towards him. He grasped her in his arms and hugged her tight.

“Dad! Dad!” she started screaming. “What was that?”

She was scared, and his heart broke at the complete look of devastation in her eyes. 

Tom Lockjaw had arrived from somewhere, moving along the streets with his van and his team, trying to get as much footage as possible. Gosalyn was aware of nothing else but him, even as Lockjaw stopped to look at them, his camera rolling.

“Dad…oh god Dad! Everything is gone!”

He would later fully forgive her for forgetting to call him Darkwing. He would never ever blame her, no matter what the internet did or said, for his loss of secrecy. He was severely aware that he was repulsed by Lockjaw’s carrion feeder behavior, was drawn to the sound of a screaming woman nearby begging someone, anyone to help her, and felt Gosalyn rip from his side to go climb up with the woman, the blood stained Binkie Muddlefoot, and help her as she picked through the debris looking for signs of life.

Darkwing was well aware of Stegmutt, thank God, arriving with Neptunia and their invisible partner, the two of them looking neither worse for the wear. Neptunia looked confused and stricken. Darkwing barely noted a liquid shape coming up out of a sewer grate for a peek, and then back again quickly upon spotting him, and blinked. So this was Neptunia’s…friend.

But there was no time to assess this sudden revelation. As his team worked together to look for survivors, his mind filled with the idea of running away, running and running...he quashed that thought, and found himself at the house of the man with the toupee.

He located a girl under the debris with her now toupee-less father, sheltering one another and holding one another, both still alive, the girl with a head wound, a very nasty head wound. As he ripped up his cape to make bandages, he mentally kicked himself for not bringing a first aid kit with him.

“How are any ambulances going to get through here…?” Neptunia said as she rushed on to the next house.

He pondered this as he watched the news van crew start packing up their equipment.

Suddenly he was filled with a new fury he could not have expected, a horror and rage he had never felt before filled him and he got up from his first aid work, and ‘patiently’ grabbed Lockjaw by his jacket and threw him towards his news van.

“You are now an ambulance. Drop all your news junk and help us out, you fucking vulture!!”

Of course Lockjaw totally caved in, and a frenzy of activity followed from his team. Lockjaw, to his credit, did have a first aid kit, which they pulled out as they emptied the van to make room for the little girl and her father, both severely grateful, crying…

He became aware that Gosalyn was still at the Muddlefoots helping Binkie, who was trying to pull her husband out from under the roof. Tank was now free and working to free another still form...a form that was suddenly screaming, screaming in pain and the horror hit Darkwing as he realized that half of Honker was being crushed by their family home...blood was everywhere. He rushed forward to stop Tank before he removed the last bit of roof keeping the pressure of Honker’s blood from blasting out of his crushed bottom half and killing him instantly.

“Don’t move him!! Morgana!!”

Morgana had found a blanket to cover her head with and soon joined the Muddlefoots and began her magic spells to stabilize Honker and keep him alive as they patiently and slowly removed the debris from off of Herb’s leg. More of his cape found its way wrapped around Binkie’s head and used to tie off Herb’s leg in a splint. Soon he was capeless, and leading Herb to Lockjaw’s van, which still had room, leaving Binkie and Tank with Gosalyn and Morgana keeping Honker company. The lad would need an actual ambulance, if one would ever get there...

Neptunia was now leading uninjured people away from the area, and he spotted, one last time, Liquidator, helping wash a tiny boy clean of soot and dust, and he felt his heart rise up to a place he hadn’t expected it could.

If this villain, no, _former_ villain, was here, helping, lending a hand...showing _kindness_ to a _child_...something about that fact made all the difference in the world.

But it just didn’t end. There was too much to do. More Justice Ducks arrived, and he organized them now not into evacuation teams, but into rescue groups.

“Stegmutt, be careful with the debris, there are people underneath it. Nightswan, my feed went out when it happened, see if you can locate Jay Gander Hooter and S.H.U.S.H. and let them know our position. Banana Boy, try to slip away as much of this junk as you can...Glue Gal, start sticking some blankets and wood pieces together to make stretchers…”

It was almost mechanical. He sent all the sidekicks to find ambulances and to make sure roads were clear so they could get through. He didn’t know where he found the energy for it, and time just marched on as he marched through the neighborhood, directing groups to different houses, Morgana using her magic to locate people under debris, as well as some of the dogs in their team, whose noses were especially good at picking up the smell of blood.

Lockjaw and his cameraman were still filming even as their van sped off to the city with patients inside. And they were following him, keeping their focus on him and his team’s efforts. He would have hit the man for not doing anything much himself, but Lockjaw was, in fact, helping in his own way...a reporter had a very important job. To tell the truth, and get that truth out, no matter how horrifying, to preserve this devastation for all history to remember.

Later on, this footage would actually become Darkwing Duck’s salvation.

Darkwing was stopped suddenly by another sound. The sound of a motor revving, a wheel on the ground, unsteadily moving, and a single momentary recognition...that feeling that salvation had come.

Around the corner from behind the piles of scrap and burning wood came Gizmoduck, glittering like a metal and burnished chrome beacon in the shadow of flaming wreckage.

For a moment, Darkwing’s heart soared. His team was all together, they would work together, they would make this right. Giz spotted them in the area and he sped over to him, hands up in a gesture of ‘oops’.

“Guess I fumbled that pass, huh Wingy?” he said, ironically, with a slight laugh.

It hit him. It hit him with the same shattering thud of the sonic weapon’s blast.

Gizmoduck. He had tried to dispose of the bomb himself.

“Giz…” he wasn’t sure if he had been the one to say that, but it was said with silently whispered shock.

Everyone went silent. Nobody said a word.

Fury. An explosion of rising fury within his chest. It gripped his bowels and ricocheted through his body to his throat and lashed out with his fiery horrified breath.

“Fumbled the pass?” he screamed. “Fumbled the PASS!?”

Shock took over the eyes of his comrade.

“Now, now, Wingy, no need to lose your cool, we have a mission to complete. The terrorists are still on the loose.”

“Mission!?”

“Darkwing!” Morgana’s voice was cautioning.

Time had passed and the sun was setting, she was looking infinitely less sun shy, but her cheekbones were hollow and her eyes sunken. She was looking like death warmed over. This may have been the catalyst that fueled his fury rather than tempering it.

“No need, Morgana, clearly Darkwing is in no good state to make calm rational leadership decisions...I suggest we begin a search of the area to find out where the villains are located.”

He should have listened to Morgana. He should have been calmer. Maybe it would have made a difference. But then again, maybe not.

“Villains?! You egotistical, arrogant, no account, self-aggrandizing, self-righteous _bastard_!” Darkwing screamed, advancing on the man.

“Now see here!”

“No!” Darkwing said tapping the metal chestplate with a finger. “ _You_ see here!” he stamped his foot. “I...have an ego!” Darkwing grasped his chest, clutching at his own jacket front and perfectly aware that they were still being filmed by Lockjaw, a man he hated infinitely less now than he had before in comparison to the man he was talking to. “I have an ego the size of a _planet_ , no the _universe_!” he rounded and came right up into Gizmoduck’s face, beak to beak. “But what...you...just...said…was... _toxic_!”

“We don’t have time for this, we have villains to capture!”

“Gizmoduck,” Morgana was now cautioning him, gracious and sympathetic. “Look around you!”

If only he had realized. Gizmoduck had been in as much shock as he had been. Had defaulted to hero mode to cope. He didn’t know left from right, let alone the scope of what he had done. But Darkwing could only see red.

“Fumbled the pass? You don’t _fumble_ with weapons of mass destruction you ass!” Darkwing shouted, “There are no villains! They are all _dead_ Giz! You crushed them all!”

Darkwing became aware now that Gizmoduck was not moving, nor speaking. With a final last cry of fury, Darkwing jumped on him and smacked up the viewscreen visor so that Gizmoduck’s vision would not be filled with computer readouts and calculations, but the cold purple, red and white visage of a blood stained, battered and barely functioning Darkwing.

Their eyes met. The fury was gone from Darkwing, replaced with just plain pure horror at the discovery that in Gizmoduck’s eyes, in his steadfast, heroic, selfless friend’s eyes was an emotion he didn’t think he would ever see.

Fear. Panic. The beginnings of a terror he had not thought his friend was capable of feeling.

The motor in his wheel revved loudly and Gizmoduck turned, screeching as he sped off into the night, and Darkwing gasped, launching himself up to chase after the man, who was already in the air.

“Where are you going? Come back here you coward!”

Pain. Pain of the memory. Pain of the horror. Of the blood stained hands of Morgana as she tried to calm him, pulling him into sitting and resting, the hundreds of police, ambulances, converging on the area.

He was vaguely aware at one point of Gosalyn finding him again, screaming his name, “Dad!” and then they were surrounded by uniformed agents of the F.B.I...and most specifically MacArthur.

“Darkwing Duck, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

And he realized, with sinking reality that as he was being hauled away from her, from his daughter, police were pulling her away in another direction, towards an FBI van.

“Dad! No let me go!”

“Go with them honey!” he screamed at her. “Don’t fight them!”

Morgana was advancing on the agents, protesting the arrest, but he was unaware of anything else but Gosalyn, being taken away, the two of them giving each other one last look as a shocked city watched, watched from their televisions as Darkwing Duck’s daughter was stolen and Darkwing Duck, defender of justice, terror that flaps in the night, was arrested on charges of genocide.

\--------

He came up out of the nightmare gasping. He could barely recall where he was, or what was going on. He did hear voices, and blanked at the one familiar voice in the mixture.

“Have loads of experience with this,” said the voice, so familiar, comforting somehow, so near. “I get them sometimes. My cousin has these pretty much weekly, he fought in multiple wars. Nothing you can do, PTSD is pretty much just treated with therapy…and prayer.”

Drake was vaguely aware of being led to the infirmary on the first level, near the bow of the ship, the two medical staff on board the ferry talking quietly to Gladstone Gander and discussing what should be done next. Drake coughed, and Gladstone pulled free of the concerned staff to bring over a water bottle. 

“Drake...are you aware of where you are now?”

“Yes...I think so…” Drake heaved a deep painful sigh, gratefully taking the bottle to take a swig of the cold clean liquid. “I…I’m sorry.”

“No...You have nothing to be ashamed of. It's all right, take it easy, you can rest here…they agreed not to stop the boat or bring in the coast guard. You need to rest a bit...that was a lot of work for you.”

Drake took a deep, levelling breath, fully aware that he had been telling Gladstone the entire story as he had been lost inside his own mind, so he hoped that he had gotten it all out. He hoped he could tell the story again without going into that state, but he didn’t dare try.

“I...I haven’t seen Gosalyn since that day. She has been placed into witness protection. The daughter of Darkwing Duck has threats against her life.”

“Ah,” Gladstone nodded, and put a hand up to his shoulder, comforting, but not invading his space more than necessary. “I’m sure you will see her again.”

“For her own safety, she can’t be my daughter anymore. She’d just become a target for the people who want to punish me…” Drake’s eyes blurred with his tears. “Villains, and…and...”

Drake noted the look of guilt in the Duckburgian’s eyes.

“Gizmo fans?” he ventured, and Drake winced.

“Yes...his _fans_. Who will never see the truth, no matter how much you put it in front of their eyes.”

“Conspiracy theorists are the worst,” Gladstone said, and Drake fully agreed. “They will admit to the truth the day that fear and mistrust cease to exist.”

Drake Mallard couldn’t agree more. Gladstone had a soothing presence. And then he remembered something, and leaned sideways into the man’s comforting shoulder.

“I heard you say, you get these sometimes too?”

It wasn’t his imagination, Gladstone Gander winced, and looked away.

“Well…” he looked out across the water, the side of the boat they were on now overlooked the city, which he was grateful for. “I saw my parents die, when I was ten years old. Have you ever heard of the Wallace Mountains Train Disaster?”

“The devastating train wreck that killed three hundred people and resulted in the train line permanently closing service to Cod Bay resulting in the construction of a new highway?”

“Oh my god,” Gladstone laughed. “You know everything don’t you?”

“Not everything, but I did go on vacation to Cod Bay one time, so I did a bit of historical research while I was there.”

“Well, you are right. It was a train wreck. Miles of endless snow and ice, and the bridge had collapsed under the weight of it as we were crossing. I was the only survivor.”

“Oh. Ooh...I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Gladstone scratched the back of his head a little. “Twisted wreckage everywhere, freezing cold river water, and snow, and everyone was dead. I remember huddling up to my parents bodies for warmth. I wrapped myself in her jacket, and wrapped dad’s scarf around my head. I was a very practical little boy…”

Tears were coming to his eyes. It was Drake’s turn to give comfort, taking the man by the shoulders as they shook. He was well aware of the man’s deep ragged breathing, his attempt to try and take control of the pain of the memory and not lose his head.

“You...you wanted to help me, and now I’m helping you,” Drake said, and Gladstone choked out a laugh.

“Yeah...I do still get the panic attacks sometimes, depending on the situation. But it's nothing to be ashamed of,” he put an arm around Drake as well and they leaned into each other, the strangeness of this combination not being lost on either of them. “Nothing at all to be ashamed of, my friend.”

It was good to have a friend again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might come back to this chapter and fix some things.
> 
> I love comments, please feel free to comment with feedback, I'd love to hear from you. <3


	5. Fair and Square Family Roots

In order to placate the captain and crew that he wasn’t going to have another panic attack and blackout they agreed to stay on the first level near the infirmary until they reached the bay. But Drake still didn’t want to be out front like this, and Gladstone found a reasonably private location near the galley where Drake could sit and watch the city go by. He was left there, for a few minutes, and Drake felt a very real warmth at the trust Gladstone was placing in him not to jump off the ship by leaving him there. He instead sat contemplating the buildings as they went by. They were going back the way they had come, but from the other side of the river, and heading up out to the bay. He could peek towards the bow and see Audubon Bay Bridge moving slowly towards them, like a gateway to the unknown.

“Hey,” Gladstone returned, with a plastic bag, clearly he had been to the gift shop. “Here’s my book, just for you as promised...I’ll find a pen to sign it…”

Drake Mallard could not help his laughing guffaw. True to his word, he had handed Drake a glossy colorful book which, flipping through it, was full of photos and writing and all sorts of information about the boat they were on.

“‘Fortune’s Ferry: A Historical Guide to One Of St Canard’s Little Known Treasures’,” Drake read the cover, and then handed the book back so Gladstone could sign the inside flap. “Wow that is amazing! Have you written many books?”

“A few, this one is newest in print, so yes, I have been a bit in advertising mode,” Gladstone laughed, and then he pulled out his phone to pull up some pictures. “Here’s me at a book signing for my second travel book, “Gladstone Gander’s Guide To World Travel”, which is a bit of a pompous title, I will admit it.”

Drake laughed, and leaned over to watch as Gladstone scrolled through his pictures, seemingly uncaring that he had an audience.

“Oh, here are my kids,” he said, as he came to a series of pictures of two very large great danes. “Clover and Rainbow, my adorable fur babies.”

Drake did not want to stereotype, completely suppressed the urge, trying not to keep in his mind the image of the openly gay man with pet dogs.

“They must scare away a lot of burglars?”

“Yes, in fact,” Gladstone pulled up two puppy pictures for him from years back in his history. He had all these pictures seemingly ready to show anyone. They were tiny, and cute, with their perky little ears. “It’s why I adopted pure breeds instead of mutts. I knew these boys would grow really big, and I have a lot of valuables in my house. Nine out of ten Beagle Boys agree, do not mess with large dogs. Clover is a big baby, Rainbow will jump right on your lap if you let her, dear lord.”

Drake laughed, and Gladstone put his phone away.

“Clover, Rainbow, you seem obsessed with all things lucky…”

“You have to be a little when you are born lucky…”

“See, there you go again, lucky. How lucky are you? I mean, besides being super rich? I know you’ve won some lotteries…”

“Oh, just ‘some’,” Gladstone chuckled, and then riffled through his wallet. “Here, I’ll demonstrate. You take that quarter, and you flip it, and I’ll guess what side it will land on. Just give me a second to tie on a blindfold...some people have accused me of counting the flips.”

“Oh,” Drake watched as the man actually pulled a handkerchief out from his bag to tie around his eyes. “Okay, call it.”

“Heads,” said without any reservation as Drake flipped the coin. It landed on his hand and he turned it onto the back of his other palm and...it was indeed heads.

“Lucky guess.”

“Flip it again.”

Drake blinked, for a moment, then did…

“Tails.”

It was tails. He flipped it again

“Tails again.”

It was. Drake flipped it again. And then again. And still again.

“Heads. Heads again. Tails. Drake stop!”

Gladstone reached out to grab the coin midair, and Drake shook his head in shock.

“That’s incredible!”

“That’s luck,” Gladstone nodded his head proudly, and put his arms behind his head to untie his blindfold. “Fortune is always smiling at me, everything goes my way, financially at least. I’ve never had to worry about threats to my life, though I try not to mess with fate if I can help it. I have had a spoiled, easy life. But lately...not as much. Perhaps being heir to the largest fortune in the world is basically like turning in all your chips at once…”

“I’d say so!” Drake gaped. “You have a super power, Gladstone Gander!”

“Oh, well, I guess so? I don’t know how it would be useful for fighting crime, since it only benefits me,” Gladstone shrugged. “It’s been a sour note in my relationship with my family for a very long time. All of my cousins would kill to have my luck. And my Uncle thinks my luck is worthless and that hard work and effort are the real treasures. He doesn’t think much of me...really,” Gladstone’s face fell, and he looked very sad, in some very real way hurting.

“Your Uncle made you heir,” Drake said. “He must think something of you…”

“Well...my luck you see, is the catch twenty-two…it’ll be easy for me to keep the company lucrative, guessing at the stock market, making lucky buys...”

“Still, everyone expected it to be his other nephew, the one he went adventuring with,” Drake said, mind momentarily blanking.

“Donald? Everyone forgets his name, even though he served in so many wars, he has a purple heart...Yeah, it should have been Donald…”

“I remember Launchpad’s reaction to the news…” Drake said, mentally wincing.

“Was it bad?”

The t.v. had been on, they’d all been in Honker’s room at the hospital watching, with popcorn, waiting for the announcement of who would take over McDuck Industries...mostly because Drake and Launchpad had bet on Donald Duck in a pool with Herb, who was rooting for the cousin named Abner Duck, who was a native to these parts and had a lot of friends in town. Launchpad, who had always thought he’d had the inside scoop on Scrooge McDuck had nearly choked on his popcorn when Gander had been named. Drake remembered pounding on his back.

_“No, it can’t be! It has to be Donald! Why Gladstone?”_

“It was...unexpected,” Drake coughed...crossing his legs. “Why, Gladstone Gander? Why you? Curiosity begs me to ask the question.”

“Well,” Gladstone sat back a bit, and the bridge was now going over their heads, and the boat became briefly dark with the blocking of the sun. “To tell you this, I should tell you a bit more about why my luck is so important to McDuck industries. But...my story might be a bit painful for you to hear.”

“For me?”

“Yes,” Gladstone sat up. “I think you need to hear it though. I’m going to tell you the story about the day I met Fenton Crackshell…”

\--------

Feeling fit and in full form, Gladstone Gander sauntered his way into the edifice of Scrooge McDuck’s money bin, happy to be free of the hot July weather, the bin’s air conditioned and cool interior a welcome respite. He was grateful that his Uncle had long ago conceded that cool air was important and vital to the wellbeing of staff and increased their productivity, and so had splurged on an A/C system that would last for many many years. Gladstone personally felt the old toughy had been reluctant to admit his office was too hot and that fans just did not cut it, but he was not one to embarrass his fantastically fortunate Uncle in any way regarding his personal well being, not in the least.

He was less so inclined towards mercy for his cousin, Donald, who was standing in the main office with the young triplets, and immediately the duck gave him a severe look of anger and distaste upon seeing him.

“Hithee ho Uncle Scrooge,” Gladstone said casually, noting the bustle of several accountants, running around the office and comparing ledgers.

“Gladstone! There you are! Mr Ivers, give him a pen and paper.”

Gladstone felt his chest fill with pride and more than a little pompous joy at this action, taking the notepad in hand, and waggling the pencil largely. He enjoyed seeing the twisted look this action brought to Donald’s face.

He just loved tax season. He really did. It was the one time that Scrooge McDuck actually needed him, and the one time he could show off that fact to Donald in a dramatically fashionable way by always arriving in his very best attire, beak in the air, feeling his overinflated and dramatic self was on display in such excess that it was almost nauseating, even to him.

But his cousin had always been constantly aggressive towards him, even when they were children. He felt no shame in showing off the fabulous luck that Donald was so severely jealous and spiteful towards him for.

“All right Gladstone, give us the number,” Scrooge had come out behind the desk and was waiting hands on hips.

“Right away Uncle Scrooge,” Gladstone put the eraser to his bill, pretended to ponder, then began guessing the numbers, making a huge show with the pen, before finishing the number and handing the pad back to Mr Ivers, dramatically.

“Let me see now,” Ivers looked at the paper, then from a dot matrix printer came a screeching sound of a ledger printing out. “Lets see what the computer says…”

The sheet of paper was torn free from its perforation and then Ivers looked over the pad and the paper, then at his own hand written notes.

“Aye, the numbers match Mr McDuck, exactly.” 

“Was there ever any doubt,” Gladstone said, feeling his confidence in his own luck quite thoroughly filling every bone in his body.

“All right,” Scrooge looked over the two numbers, then pointed to Gladstone. “Follow me.”

Gladstone blinked, a little taken aback as Scrooge walked right into the money bin vault, without any hesitation. He was rarely invited inside to see the money.

Inside the bin, the vast fortune seemed to hum with internal magic that Gladstone could feel from the top of his head down to his webbed toes. He knew, without having to guess, that there was treasure here that was more precious than all the coins here, that treasure being a ten cent coin under glass, and the magic of this place spoke to the magic luck within him. Walking into the money bin was like walking into a concert hall, whilst the Hallelujah chorus was playing in the pit. Just an echo of energy right up and down Gladstone’s spine.

“Fenton! Where are you?”

Gladstone looked out over the gold piles and stacks of cash, completely taken aback. Scrooge McDuck rarely had visitors in his treasure room, nor did he ever allow them access when he wasn’t present. And most certainly not in such a casual manner as the man who came around a pile of money in the far corner, kicking coins, stumbling over his feet, and running over the piles to casually stand right next to the number one dime, as if...it were home.

“Gladstone, this is Fenton Crackshell,” said Scrooge by way of introduction, handing Gladstone the two sheets of numbers. “Fenton! Count lad! Give us the number!”

Fenton Crackshell was a rather ordinary looking duck with a mess of floppy feathers on his head. His office style button down shirt was unbuttoned, his jacket worn, his legs looked a little too skinny for his body and he stood unsteadily on his feet.

Yet his eyes, moments ago, concerned, nervous, now were contemplating the bin and surroundings with a calculating, almost emotionless look.

“Five quadrillion, four hundred and sixty four trillion, eight hundred and seventy nine billion, two hundred and thirteen million, seven hundred and seventy two thousand, six hundred and seventy one dollars and seventy two cents...plus your lucky dime...sir…”

Gladstone panicked, and looked at the number, and gasped, and felt all his air come out of his chest.

“That’s incredible!” he shouted, pointing at Crackshell with a finger. “You have luck!”

“NO!” Scrooge shouted, landing his cane on the railing right between Gladstone and the rest of the bin, causing him to jump back. “That is MATH!”

“Mister Crackshell is a MENSA certified genius,” said Mr Ivers, cautiously. “And The Mega Society, he scores an IQ well above any other living duck on earth…”

“He calculated and counted the money in my bin with his incredible brain power,” Scrooge gave a hearty cackling laugh. “Do you know where I found him lad?”

Gladstone looked over at Crackshell, who was watching this interchange with a look that was both preening, proud, and still aloof, yet still a little shyly nervous, waiting for the final pronouncement, that death knell that was just waiting to fall down upon Gladstone’s head like a hammer.

“One of my canning factories, he was counting beans,” Scrooge cackled, as he danced around the platform.

“He’s already an employee then?” Gladstone said, feeling his sudden demise was only two strokes away.

“Fenton Crackshell is now one of my accountants, and you nephew...are fired!”

Gladstone felt the sinking reality and the sickening truth filling him. Scrooge really didn’t want him, and only had needed him for tax season, when counting his cash was too astronomically difficult to contemplate, and had finally found a way to get rid of him.

Crackshell was giving him a sympathetic but unimpressed look.

“I’m not looking forward to the day he does that to me,” the man said, almost prophetically, and turned to go stumbling around along the hills of coins again, kicking them with his feet and looking a bit like a school boy eagerly at work on his sums.

Another...very real and sickening feeling filled him. Something dark, sinister, almost...he didn’t dare say it...twisted. A moment of pathetic irony.

“Well Uncle Scrooge, you’re finally rid of me, I am no longer even an employee, let alone _family_ ,” he shrugged. “Enjoy your new freedom...but if you ask me, personally, I wouldn’t just let anyone go running around in my piggy bank. Keep my number...just in case your new employee is sick next tax day...”

And he turned, didn’t even look at his Uncle to see how this comment affected him, and pushed his way past his smiling cousins, keeping his bill in the air, and leaving the way he came.

With what little dignity he could muster.

\----------

“I was very arrogant in those days, very overconfident and smug,” Gladstone looked out over the water, his face was a mask of hurt and irony. “I was firmly in the closet, afraid of anybody learning who I really was underneath, and I put up all the walls and masks and let them think the worst of me, it kept them from seeing who I really was. Terrified of large crowds, afraid of being rejected for being gay, I stuffed the ballot box and gave them different reasons to hate me...And I was absolutely horrid in my treatment of others. I deserved to be kicked out. But it still hurt. If the only reason a family member ever wants you around is to count his money for you, that’s a bad sign.”

“Yeah, it is,” Drake was looking out on the bay. “Amazing...astonishing. I didn’t know he could do that. I knew he was an accountant...but…”

“You can hide super powers behind science and math, but it's still a super power. He was really really being held back by the gizmo suit, in my humble opinion,” Gladstone put a hand dramatically to his chest.

“Amazing…” Drake leaned back. “He’s amazing…”

“Yes, he is. But anyway, telling you that story was a prelude to telling you how I became the heir. That story is even more painful than the previous one. It was after Fenton’s trial, in July, tax season, and like clockwork, I got the instant message on my phone from my uncle and I knew he needed me again. But this time I was out of the closet, no masks, no barriers, I had fallen from grace in such a terrible way in the media, in our Conservative social circle.”

“Because...you were gay…?”

“Yes, Uncle Scrooge is very open minded, but he’s a fiscal conservative, a real capitalist, Republican politically, and you aren’t going to gain much support from your political base by having such a scandal in your family. It was one the worst Friday the thirteenths of my life, I tell you, having my lover betray me like that. Only day I’m not lucky, by the way, Friday the thirteenth. But this story takes place on a Tuesday, fortunately, not a bad luck day, I was feeling very lucky, and I was feeling I had a chance to prove to my cousin and my Uncle that I was a changed man, and ready to help again.”

\-----------

Scrooge McDuck’s office was packed with accountants when Gladstone Gander slipped in. He spotted Donald and Daisy, now his wife, quietly sitting by the side, not making a sound. The search for the three boys was becoming more and more fruitless and desperate. Donald looked like he had aged a thousand years. He spotted Gladstone, and rather than glaring, gave him a sad look of surrender. His eyes were saying, ‘Oh go on, just get it over with, quick’.

To his shock and surprise, Abner was there too, sitting behind Donald, looking lazy and contemplating as he chewed on what Gladstone was not-surprised to see was a piece of tall grass, gone to seed. He was really a man of the hills still, so very set in his ways. Probably he was there because he was also a military veteran, like Donald, and he had been helping with the search through his military connections, but with no luck of his own.

Gladstone wove his way around the accountants in their frenzy, taking his hat off, and Scrooge, who was sitting at his desk, head in hands, looked up. His eyes were drawn and he was looking ill. He’d had a heart attack not longer after the boys had disappeared, and everyone was on high alert for the signs of another.

“Gladstone...good...please Mr Ivers, a piece of paper and pencil for him...if you would.”

Mr Ivers had been employed with McDuck for a very long time. In that long time he had barely changed. His dark hair was a little more receding now, a little more gray, and he wore glasses, but he was still the same ordinary head accountant, as he should be. A stalwart and upstanding member of the financial team here at this company.

Gladstone didn’t feel like being dramatic. He could feel the air of fear and tension in the room as he scribbled out the number, he could also feel the hum of the money in the next room, calling to him, like a song…

“Mr Ivers…?” said Scrooge.

Ivers had printed up the numbers, the laser printer spitting out the sheet at hitherto unknown speeds into the plastic tray, and Ivers looked at them, and sighed, shaking his head.

“The numbers do not match,”

“Whu...what?” Gladstone took the pages from the man. “But my luck is fine!”

“It's not you, Gladstone!” said Scrooge. “It's us! Mister Ivers? Are you sure?”

“I’ll double check,” he turned to the team. “Find Mister Gander’s last guess and compare all our sums for the time period in question.”

It had been years since he’d stepped into the bin. Gladstone made a sound, like a glurk, and Donald stood to his feet to go stand next to Uncle Scrooge, Daisy following faithfully.

“Well?” Scrooge said, looking sweaty and unhappy, even in the cool air conditioned office.

“The numbers don’t lie,” said Ivers, “Comparing Mister Gander’s numbers with ours, I will say that there is over one hundred and fifty million dollars of cash missing from your money bin.”

Daisy gasped, Donald gave a little ‘wak’ of surprise and Abner said, “Well tarnation!”

“Oh dear god...how?” said Gladstone, taken aback.

“I’m not going to point fingers, but considering recent events, I’d say Mister Crackshell might…”

“Fenton would never take a dime from me!!” Scrooge shouted and Daisy immediately rushed to his side to take his arm and pull him calmly back down onto the chair.

“Perhaps not, every member of this accounting team will have to be inspected for our financial activities,” Ivers shook his head. “We don’t have a choice. We need to cook the books.”

“NEVER!” Scrooge jumped to his feet, and banged his cane on his desk, causing his water glass to topple over and spill on the floor. “I will not break the law!”

“Then be prepared for an audit!”

“No!”

“Yes, an audit, which means counting the coins, in this bin, one at a time, costing the taxpayers, and us, potentially millions more than is missing!”

“I will not consent to an action that would jeopardize the moral foundation by which the McDuck name stands!”

“You will go to prison, do you understand?” Ivers was pacing. “I wouldn’t put it past our government to find any small reason to have you arrested. Embezzling your own cash? Even a hundred million dollars is enough to get you a year behind bars. And the government will not accept Gladstone Gander’s lucky guess. This time they will ask for the evidence, considering that the man who has been doing your accounts for years is now doing time. And if you are audited, you will be _too._ ”

Gladstone gasped. He suddenly realized it all in one fell swoop. It all hammered down like a blow from the heavens. Scrooge hadn’t wanted to get rid of him because he didn’t like Gladstone, hardly that...

Fenton’s numbers were provable in a court of law. Mathematics. Scrooge looked rightfully stricken.

“Isn’t, isn’t there anything else we can do?”

“Well there is one other thing,” said another accountant, who had been reluctant to join in. “You can retire. Resign, step down as CEO and formally request the audit yourself. Open a formal inquiry into Crackshell’s financial activities whilst employed here. They won’t charge you with embezzlement if you already have an obvious suspect and are looking into the problem honestly yourself. There will also be a fine, probably...but it all depends on whether the government accepts Gander's number. If they don’t, there’ll have to be a count of what is in the bin. If your private fortune is being audited, but the company is under a new CEO, McDuck industries will be able to continue functioning...that is the only other way.”

Silence followed this pronouncement, everybody waited, the air crackling with the tension and finality of what had happened.

“I’m ruined,” Scrooge said, his eyes red and his whole body shaking and he jumped up and threw his cane, voice rising to hysterical levels. “Ruined! Everyone out! Get out!!”

Ivers and the other accountant both tried to calm him, until Abner forcefully started pushing people out of the door, and they left in a swearing parade of angry men. Daisy and Donald rushed to grab Scrooge by his arms and pull him back to his chair. Gladstone grabbed Abner before he left.

“Don’t leave him alone, no matter what he says, there’s no telling what he might do in this state…”

“Aye, got yeh Gladdy, what yer gonna do?”

“I’m going to stop this from becoming heart attack number two…” he said.

And then...Gladstone took charge. He wasn’t meaning to, but he did, going out to the outer office and buttoning up his jacket with a severe look on his face as he approached the secretary, feigning authority.

“Mrs Quackfaster, cancel all appointments for this week, answer no phones, no media, nobody sets foot on the property, and call the mansion and have Duckworth bring round the limousine, Uncle Scrooge is going home. Have his doctor discreetly brought to the mansion for a house call, and I repeat, absolutely no media of any kind.”

“Right way Sir,” the woman looked stricken as she started calling to cancel booked appointments and meetings for the days to come.

Gladstone took a deep, calming breath, glad that she hadn’t called his bluff, then walked back into the executive office, where a crying Scrooge was being held by Donald and Daisy, in a reassuring embrace.

He suppressed his natural jealousy of that close relationship and nodded to Abner before going over to pointedly close and lock the money bin door. Abner started to pick up the papers and Gladstone took care of the machines. Between the two of them closing everything up, and Daisy and Donald calming Scrooge down, the office was shut down in less than an hour and Scrooge was led away to where Ducksworth was waiting with the rolls royce.

Abner went on a patrol to make sure all the security was in place and everyone else was in fact off the property, and Gladstone stood for a moment alone, in the office, holding up the two pieces of paper with the totals, a feeling of considerable dread rising in his chest.

An audit. A horrible thing, considering the over five quadrillion dollars just sitting lazily nearby, and the time, money, and manpower that would be needed to count such a large sum.

Never had his lucky guesses ever felt so useless.

And the more he thought about it, the worse it got. Ferries, haul boats, large land where the money would have to be relocated to temporarily, the manpower alone, the amount of security needed...It _would_ cost more than had been stolen, considerably much more.

It was a task Scrooge McDuck had not performed since before the triplets were born. Over eighteen years. Gladstone considered this. It was feasible. It could be done. Perhaps there was technology out there that could digitally count the bin. It was worth a try for him to start research of this fundamental topic.

Because Scrooge McDuck had built over his lifetime a monster of monumental proportions. And that monster had finally risen up to confront its master, jaws wide, ready to bite.

Someone needed to be the knight on white horse coming to defend the elderly King of the Castle. In the realm of money, who better than the ‘Duck with the Luck’, Gladstone Gander?

\-----------

“A hundred and fifty million dollars??” Drake blanked, feeling his brain glazed over. “Fenton…?”

“We think so, we still have no evidence, though, it hasn’t been that long since we started the investigation,” Gladstone stretched a little. “I imagine he took a couple hundred dollars at a time in his pocket each time he went into the bin for the day, and went home again. He didn’t live like he had a regular source of money beyond his paycheck, so he had to have been investing it or depositing it somewhere…But all my luck is telling me that yeah, it was Fenton. I guess even a nice guy like him couldn’t avoid the temptation of all that hard cash...”

“Oh my god,” Drake looked out over the water with a certain amount of ironic humor. “I feel a lot less guilty about him sitting in jail right now, I really do…”

“Oh lord,” Gladstone snickered. “When he gets out, and he will, he’s going to be one well off little feather plucker, I tell you what.”

Drake laughed, he laughed, threw his head back and cackled until people turned their heads to look at him.

“Let's go upstairs to the top level, and I’ll tell you the last bit...I think the staff here aren’t worried about us anymore…”

Drake looked around, and it did seem the medical staff were nowhere in sight, the captain was somewhere else, and he nodded. They found ‘their spot’ by the back wheel, and the area was relatively free now of people, everyone going inside for the 'all you can eat' buffet. It was only ten o’clock but some people liked to get to these things early.

“Here we are,” Gladstone stretched out, looking over the big wheel, a lot of quiet contemplation on his face. “I hope I entertained you a little with my story…”

“That can’t be all there is to it…” Drake said. “You didn’t just walk into the inheritance because you made a few good decisions on a bad day…”

“Ah, well, I guess I do owe you the last bit…” Gladstone shrugged, and looked out over the water. “See if you can catch the subtle clue I leave you, as to why it was me…as I tell you the last little bit before the announcement was made…”

\------------

Unfortunately, Scrooge McDuck did have a second heart attack, not as severe as the first, and had announced his plan to retire right from the hospital, right before going in for corrective surgery on his heart. All company business had halted, he stepped down as CEO, recovered in the hospital, returned home, and then did as the second accountant has suggested, opening himself up to an investigation and accusing Fenton Crackshell of stealing from his money bin. Fortunately, and luckily, the government decided to accept Gladstone Gander’s number as the actual total in the bin. Fortune was with them, and clearly the Government didn’t want to spend taxpayer money counting that much cash.

A bit of time had passed, and Gladstone found himself one day with Donald in the mansion’s library, going over every last detail of information their family, as a mass, had gathered about Huey, Dewey and Louis’ location. It had fallen finally now to Donald spinning the globe, and Gladstone randomly tapping with his finger on spots.

“Sibearia, again,” Gladstone shook his head. “I told you, that’s where they are. Sibearia.”

“How would they get to Sibearia from Geneva?” Daisy said, near to tears from her exhaustion from the work they were doing. “We haven’t found any information as to where they went from Geneva…Greenbeak hasn’t been helpful at all!”

“They must have been put on a plane, or private chopper, or…”

Donald was grumbling to himself, his temper boiling.

“What was that Cousin?” Gladstone felt like rising to the challenge. “I didn’t hear you, could you please repeat it for me, a bit louder?”

“You sent them there in the first place,” Donald enunciated. “You told them to go!”

“I gave them tickets to visit Aunt Matilda in Scotland as a gift, they never went, how was I supposed to know they would not visit their Aunt?”

“You told them never to come back!”

“I did not!” he yelled back.

As usual, to Daisy’s dismay, their argument downward spiraled into a proper scuffle, feathers flying, fists flailing, and was only broken by Scrooge McDuck coming into the library and banging his cane down upon their heads.

“ENOUGH!”

Both of them parted like the red sea at Noah’s staff.

“I swear I’ll do it!” Scrooge brandished the cane, ready to strike at them, and he whirled on Gladstone. “I’ll wait for Friday thirteenth, I know Matilda’s tricks for raising you!”

Gladstone instinctively covered his tail feathers, and so did Donald, and Scrooge threw his hands in the air. 

“Ach! Look at the pair of you! Scrabbling on the ground like dogs over a bone! The boys were never this argumentative...don’t you roll your eyes at me Donald Fauntleroy Duck!” Scrooge rounded on him, causing Donald to wince back and cover his head as well as his backside. “I helped you raise them remember! The boys did argue, but not like you two fight, not to this jealous, vicious, extent,” he stumbled to his desk chair with an angry swearing retort in gaelic, Ducksworth following and becoming his shadow behind the desk chair. “You two are McDucks! Proud sons of a long and noble Scottish family history. But you’d never think it to look at you!”

They were a sorry pair indeed, with loose feathers, unbuttoned shirts and black eyes starting to form. Gladstone didn’t even look at Donald, instead returning to lean against the globe and look down at the floor rather sullenly. He felt humiliated, embarrassed at his own lack of self-control. He would have to avoid reporters now as well, until his black eye healed.

“Now,” said Scrooge, looking out at them, seeing Donald had slumped on the chair beside where Daisy was standing, and then over to Gladstone pointedly. “It has been over a year now since the boys vanished, and I think it is time I faced the facts...and update my will.”

Both of them looked up, alarmed.

“Oh I haven’t given up on them, not by a long shot. But my heart has failed twice now, and I’m not banking on the third time not being a charm,” he looked at Gladstone pointedly at the word ‘charm’. “And so I need to pick my heir, and pick the new CEO for McDuck, might as well make it official. Ducksworth?”

The butler in question, sniffing and giving them both no more or less than the ugliest of disproving looks, went over to a locked cabinet, unlocked it, then pulled out the small sheath of paper that entailed the estate, and Scrooge carefully cleared a space on his overflowing desk for the all important will and testament to sit.

“I’ll legalize this with my lawyer in the morning, for now we’ll just make the edits ready to transfer to the new paperwork, so I can sleep at night…” he adjusted his glasses, and read over his own writing very carefully as he made adjustments with his fountain pen.

Nobody spoke as he was doing this. Daisy was silently crying, as this all meant that Scrooge had resigned himself to his illness. Heart disease. He wasn’t going to bank on the boy’s return by the time he maybe had another heart attack and didn’t make it out of the hospital alive. If it was the last thing he did, Gladstone would get this duck eating healthy, exercising and exploring again, somehow...

“Now then,” he sat back, and looked over them both with a sigh. “Ironic...it's very ironic..”

Gladstone frowned, and Donald perked up.

“The title of McDuck is not just a Scottish thing, we’re also members of the British peerage. And with that comes the responsibilities of that title, Lord. Lord McDuck. But, the British government controls who inherits the title, not me,” Scrooge looked over at Gladstone and then over at Donald. “The rules are very clear, and very sexist. A male heir only, a direct male heir, and they often go back a step to find one. I have been very careful about checking to make sure I know who the heir to the title is...Who the British government will pass it down to. No daughters, no bastards,” he looked over at Gladstone and then added, hastily. “And no adoptive children. Legitimate heirs only.”

Gladstone felt himself reeling for a moment. Did he mean…?

“I like to keep things together, I’ve kept the Scottish lands and money separate from my American estate, keeping it all in one neat little package, because I knew, I knew, even if the boys had been here, that Donald will inherit the title of Lord,” Scrooge gave Donald a look when he went ‘hwah?’. “So in light of this, the lands that I own in Scotland, including the castle, will be yours as well Donald.”

“Uncle Scrooge!” Gladstone said, stricken.

“Sit down!” replied the old-timer, knowing full well that Gladstone had not been sitting down before. “I know it's unfair!” Scrooge huffed. “That’s why I said it was ironic. My sister should really get the castle, she lived there longer than I ever did. Hell, _you_ lived there nearly longer than I did, but this is how we’re going to make it a square deal...”

He got up and went around the desk, then looked over Gladstone contemplatively.

“You are infinitely unworthy of anything, everything I have done, and built up over the years. You are lazy, selfish, egotistical, arrogant and too lucky and privileged for your own good. But fair is fair. You will work _hard_ ,” he advanced on him, and Gladstone stumbled back, finding his back to the globe, and leaning backwards over it as his Uncle advanced until they were beak to beak. “Every…single...day. You’ll be in the office from nine to five. Your running around the world lifestyle is now _over_. You are the heir now, the CEO of McDuck Industries and you will run this company with a little more effort than I have ever seen you make in your entire life, or I promise I will leave it to Gus! He certainly could use the money more than you do,” he turned around and Gladstone saw Donald’s horrified face and felt his stomach twisting. “It’s ironic, because Donald, who has spent almost all his life adventuring with me and the boys, and who considers the mansion more his home than the castle, has the castle. And you, who have called the castle your home your entire life, will have the mansion. But it is an even deal, square. The Lord title comes with a fair bit of money itself…Donald, you are going to be quite well off, no sour grapes about money, please. The arguing between you...was never about money anyway.”

It was the truth of things brought out in raw and ugly detail. Scrooge sighed again, a long suffering sigh, and started to mount the stairs up out of the library, then stopped, and whirled around.

“And you can better believe I’ll drop you like a rock the minute the boys show up!” Scrooge said, and pointed his cane at Gladstone. “You had better earn this, and prove that you are every little bit as much of a McDuck as Donald is, or I will wash my hands of you forever, do you understand?”

“Y-yes…” Gladstone was heaving, his eyes were rolling with tears, his misery was total and complete.

He had never wanted the estate, and now he had it, and his home, the place he had always gone back to, the place he remembered being his happiest, was now Donald’s. Scrooge shook his head, with a gasp.

“Ach, me boys, me boys, what have you done? You’ve made a mess of me, I never would have cared so much before as I do now...ah boys…” 

He left the room, Ducksworth moving quickly to follow in his wake, and the door closed with finality that filled the room with its ominous judgement.

Daisy put her hands on her hips.

“Well now you two have done it! I hope you’re happy, his health has been problematic as it is without you fighting all the time!” she went into full lecture mode, which they both fully deserved. “Donald,” she went to his side, Donald was very much on the edge of a very well and fully fair nervous breakdown. “I don’t want to live in Scotland, raise children there and not have their Uncle Gladstone be able to visit them, I want to stay here,” she turned to look at Gladstone. “Gladdy, you can’t run this company alone, you’re going to need Donald, now, put aside your differences. Scrooge is right, this wasn’t ever about the money. You need to be cousins now, no more fighting, make peace. For the family’s sake if not for yours?”

Donald gave him a ‘look’ and Gladstone sighed and they reluctantly shook hands.

“Okay Mac?” said Donald, using his catch all friendly name for people he was getting himself acquainted with.

Irony of ironies.

“All right there, Donny,” Gladstone sighed. “I...god, I really didn’t want it to be this way…”

“Well maybe now you work together to find the boys?” Daisy said. “I need to go lie down myself, it's been a long day!”

She left them both in the library, both of them contemplating the maps, globes and photographs and charts and civilly, very civilly, getting back down to business.

\----------

“I haven’t had a fist fight with Donald since that day, knock on wood,” he superstitiously knocked on the bench they were sitting on. “But yes, there it is, the sad sad tale of how Gladstone Gander became heir to the estate...because fair is fair…”

“Yes,” Drake Mallard noted the distant look in Gladstone’s eyes. The carefully worded tale rolled around in his mind, and he thought for a moment, putting two and two together. “Because illegitimate sons can’t inherit titles of the peerage.”

Gladstone didn’t move. He looked out over the water quietly.

“I always used to think being mixed race was a wonderful thing. But as it turns out, one hundred percent duck, not a single goose in me for a couple generations back. My Aunt Matilda adopted me, because, in truth, the Ganders were not my family…and she knew it.”

Silence filled the air, and Drake Mallard looked over the water, mind reeling. Scrooge McDuck had an illegitimate son. Then again, how was he surprised? The man had been alive for ages, he had to have had mistresses.

“Well, then,” said Gladstone. “I could use a drink, this boat has a bar. Have a beer on me?”

“I don’t usually drink, but I think you have definitely earned one. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have played with canon in twisty ways. Yay for AU.


	6. The Darkest Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER and TRIGGER WARNING: waterboarding torture is fully described here.

Unfortunately they never made it to the bar. Just as they were both mounting the very busy stairs to go down one level, the captain’s voice came on over the loudspeaker. His timing couldn’t have been worse, in Gladstone’s opinion, and there couldn’t have been a more terrible reason, to highlight a location that Gladstone could never, never remember the tour guide mentioning in all his years taking this tour. He must have been lucky.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he sounded surprised even himself. “If you look to your left, you'll see something that honest and law abiding citizens of St Canard will hopefully never see except on this tour...ah...the St Canard Penitentiary, also called the Supervillain Prison…No flash photography please, it upsets the inmates.”

Drake stopped, gave a considerable jerk, then turned to run back up the stairs.

“Wait!”

“I’ve got to see this!”

Gladstone swore, and went after him, and was startled when Drake skipped second level to go all the way to the top.

_Dammit!_

He caught up to Drake at the bow of the ship, pushing through the large number of people there snapping photos and coming to stand beside him.

He was surprised that Drake had his camera out.

“Gonna get a picture…”

“Dray…?” he didn’t dare use his whole name with this many people.

“Hah, it’s all right,” he laughed, and turned, and he was smiling. “I’ve been there before to visit…”

“You said that about Site Zero,” Gladstone said, pointedly putting his hands on his hips.

Luck was with them, nobody seemed to care, nor did they recognize the terror that flaps in the night. Drake took his picture, and the two of them decided to move back to sit on a bench and watch the prison pass by. So much for the beer he had been hoping for. But the people who had been taking pictures started quickly moving away. Gladstone soon saw why; a large cruise ship, if he guessed right, the _La Giaconda_ , was shuffling in from the ocean towards St Canard and people had started taking pictures of that, a much more interesting thing to see than a prison.

It was a very ugly monolith, the penitentiary. Built on an island rock face, almost precariously perched, there was a lot of metal fencing surrounding the prison in the water, with a gate that the prison’s boat would have to go through before reaching the island. An old brick and stonework structure with barbed wire fencing, it was little more than a box, with a newer metal and cement prison tower built in the inner section. It was dark, and the lights at four corners and the very real presence of guards moving along the walls caused Gladstone to shiver.

_Never my dear Lady of Luck, never ever let me have to set foot in that place…Oh Drake...I’m so sorry._

“Its hard...thinking of Fenton in there…” Drake admitted, as the prison slowly moved by. “I’ve been there you know, a few times…Once for an undercover assignment, once a mistaken arrest...and once...for temporary holding, you know...right before my trial...”

“Yes...did you want to talk about that?”

“Its…” Drake looked out over the water. “It's not the trial that is so terrible. I mean it was...but it was what happened to me before it all, before the prison, right after I was arrested…”

\----------

It was not the local jail that Darkwing Duck was taken too after the van he had been thrown in came to its final destination. It was Immigrations and Customs.

It wouldn’t have made a difference where they took him, but he was filled suddenly with a remarkable feeling of dread. This place had a very large detention center for illegal immigrants coming to St Canard from the sea, and a reputation for holding people for very very long periods of time without deportation or release. A considerable twist of concern filed him. He didn’t have his identity cards on him.

“I want my lawyer, hey, I said I want a lawyer, how many times do I have to say it?”

“Shut up, or we’ll make you shut up.”

Darkwing resigned himself to a lawsuit instead, in fact, the more of his rights they stepped on, the more likely they would have to let him go. He knew how the law worked.

What he didn’t understand was the long dark walk down cement stairs into the dark prison center...he couldn’t hear the sounds of people in here. It echoed with its emptiness. This level was clearly disused, not functional at all. He was to be the only inmate. He was summarily thrown into a room with two beefy guards, who strip searched him, removing every article of clothing he had, his favorite hat, the all important mask, all of it.

“Hey, there’s a thing called a body scanner!”

“I said shut up!!”

And then they subjected him to the most invasive body cavity search ever. Humiliated, and feeling totally violated, he ducked defensively when they threw him a nondescript brown-grey prison uniform which he pulled on reluctantly, and he was taken down the hall again, red faced, and thrown into a cell, and then locked there. The echo of fingers in places that shouldn’t have been touched remained with him for a while.

He yelled at them. Yelled for his lawyer, and yelled for his rights. Nothing occurred. He eventually lost his urge to fight for the day and found a dark corner to sit in. There was no bed or cot in this room, a mat on the floor was the only designation for the bed, and there was no toilet. He calculated all of the legal rights abuses in this room, gave the dark stained mat an ugly look, then went over to lay down on it. It didn’t feel any different than the floor.

Hours passed. He didn’t know what time it was when the guard came in to toss a tray of mashed potatoes and green beans on the floor for him. Darkwing decided to eat it. They watched him while he ate, so that he couldn’t steal the plastic cutlery, then they took the tray, and led him to a bathroom.

They watched him while he peed. He was feeling so damn humiliated and angry now.

“Do you really do this to immigrants? You know they’re people too right?”

“Shut up,” said one, grabbing him the minute his hands were washed and dragging him back to his cell.

He spent the night, eyes wide, half convinced that the penitentiary must have been overcrowded for this to have happened...and thinking things over in his mind.

_I’m a U.S. citizen...right? Right Amma? Nana?_

Part of him had started to wonder for certain. His parents hadn’t been. And when he had turned into an adult they had made sure to warn him to never tell anyone they were his parents, and they had returned to Tibet to take care of his ill Grandparents, giving him their restaurant so that he could prosper in America. He had not been able to do anything with it, and had sold it to a friend of his parents who knew how to handle the business. They hadn’t minded. Now, he turned over on the cot and stared out towards the wall, wondering if maybe he wasn’t a legal citizen, and maybe that was why he was here, and sleep eventually took over his waking thoughts.

\------------

Morning. It came with the sound of the cell door being slammed open, and two men coming in and grabbing him.

“Hey, what are you doing? Where are you taking me? Let me go!”

The room, like all the others, was a basic square. And in it was a board on the ground, with one end up higher than the other. Suddenly everything came into his mind at once, his research and training filling him and he started struggling to escape.

“No! Stop don’t!” he shrieked and tried to pull away. “This is illegal! I’m an American, stop!”

These men must have heard this a thousand times. He lay head downwards, handcuffed, strapped to the board, and before he could scream out any more protests, a piece of cloth was wrapped around his beak, and raised a bucket over his head.

And that’s when water...the life giving symbol for waterfowl the world over...became the harbinger of his own personal hell.

Drowning...he was drowning. Every molecule in his body was telling him he was drowning. Rationally he knew he wasn’t, but his body felt as if he was...the suffocation, the water...He came up out of the torture gasping, as they allowed him a chance to breath, but he couldn’t continue as they covered his beak again, and he internally screamed.

Internally, he was calculating all the people he was going to sue for this. Mentally, he started breaking his experience down into an analysis of the waterboarding technique, the Darkwing mind ever vigilant, ever ready for any educational experience. Spiritually, he distanced himself, returning to his Tibetan Buddhist teachings, the mental clarity, the meditation…

They didn’t ask any questions, Darkwing had finally gasped out, “What do you want from me?” and they said nothing.

He wasn’t sure how long they did this for. But he was sure of when it ended. He was dragged, soaked to his shoulders and shivering, still feeling in the back of his head like he was drowning, back to his cell, probably around lunch time, he was having trouble counting time now. 

He didn’t get lunch. 

He curled up in a corner, not wanting to get his cot wet, and whispered, “I’ll sue…” over and over again, a mantra, a mantra to reassure him that this government, this government of this country that he was a proud citizen, or so he thought, that he loved to protect, was going to have to be held accountable if he could ever respect this government again. He was not some frightened immigrant from the south trying to become an American. He had lived here his entire life.

_But was I born here?_

Suddenly he wasn’t sure. He was aware of his life in a tiny apartment in the city, downtown, at one year old, his mother laughing, cooking wonderful smelling Tibetan food, noodles in a thick broth. Her robes were beautiful, he always loved his mother, her lovely perfume, and she had a lovely normal bill, not as long as his own, that he got from his father, his father who was actually one part crane.

The memory of his father came to him, he was a man who would laugh and would dance a crane mating dance for his mother, and he would pick little Drake up by his two tiny hands, the duckling giggling and grasping as he experienced the sensation of flying, being held aloft in the air. Some Tibetan music was playing on the record player in the background, something from a time and place long ago. Beautiful chanting and gongs and bells...

The cell door slammed open, startling him out of this comforting memory, and his dinner tray was put down, potatoes and beans again.

“Lawyer...please? Even immigrants get lawyers...right?”

The guard glowered at him, and just stood there, whilst Drake ate. He realized he hadn’t been given breakfast or lunch, dinner was the only meal he was going to be given, and he couldn’t miss a bite, no matter what…

He would need the energy.

\---------

The next several days were hell. A hell of repetitions. With no explanation, and no questions given, he was dragged off this way, to that chamber, subjected to the waterboarding, and dragged back to his cell. Sometimes when he struggled they’d kick him, but not hard enough to break anything, smack his bill when he swore, and use their own heavy bodies to keep him from thrashing. They smelled like sweat and aftershave. He was keeping himself sane daily with meditation and deeply indulging in memories of his really really far back childhood. Memory techniques taught to him by the monks allowed him to recall even as far back into his past as the time inside his shell before hatching.

And he did remember the boat. Yes, he remembered it now. He had arrived on a boat. The cold damp on his feathers, the smell of fish, the dark space they were all crowded in together like sardines...the angry smugglers telling people to shut their children up, the dangerous smell of gun grease...the fear.

_I’m an immigrant...but do I have paperwork? I have to have paperwork somewhere, I have a driver’s license and all that! I went to school!_

But Drake knew how the underground worked. His parents would have paid a lot of money to have illegal documents made for them, they were broke in America, but they were alive. Fleeing persecution from the authoritarian government, this was a small price to pay. But they did have a place to live, a little apartment not far from that port where he had been, where a young Drake had run with The King’s street gang, terrorizing people for their change.

In the end, these memories of his childhood did keep him fairly sane when he was alone, stomach grumbling about the nonstop green beans and potato starch, and sleeping on his mat, despite the dampness of his place, because every other time of the day, he was fighting to end the torture...end the madness. He was fighting the shadow, the false impression and false mask of drowning that his body was being trained to recognize and fear the coming of.

On the eighth day, he stopped fighting, he didn’t struggle, he accepted it. His Tibetan wisdom had failed. His training had failed.

He was broken, just begging them to “Stop it, please, I’ll do anything you ask, just please stop, please…!”

“This is the longest I have seen anyone last,” the guard said, the nicest thing that any of them had said, as he returned to his cell. “I’ll grab your tray.”

He had the presence of mind to thank the man, in a still small voice.

The food was almost untouchable, but he forced it down, he didn’t know what would happen now, he only knew that he would tell them anything, everything...he just wanted to be dry again. To never have water touching his face.

\------

Morning came, and with it, the guards, and this time they didn’t drag him to the torture chamber, they took him to a room with a metal table and chairs, the table and chair bolted down to the floor, the other chair unbolted for the comfort of whoever would be using it.

It wouldn’t be him. He was handcuffed to the bolted chair, arms behind the chair back, in such a way that he wouldn’t be able to rise, and he was left there, to stare at the table top, and the pitcher of water and the glass that was sitting on top of it.

He didn’t look up when Dalton MacArthur came into the room, in a black suit, with a tie that had a strange mottled green and brown pattern, almost like if military camo fatigues had decided to change careers and become elegant. He came into the room, and quietly circled the table behind Drake.

“Pemba...Choden…” he said. “You know who I am…of course...”

It was Drake Mallard’s heart that stopped beating at these words, Darkwing fully back in the shadows now, and he stiffened.

“I...haven’t ever used that name, actually…”

“Not even a little? When you went to that monastery in Tibet as a college student you used it. Where your father has lived since your parents departed. Both of you pretending you weren’t related so you could stay in America…Yet you used that name with the monks...”

Darkwing gaped. How had he…?

“You…”

“Know entirely too much about you Pemba...can I call you that? Or do you prefer Drake?”

“I really do, prefer Drake…” he said, feeling rather calm about it. “Do you know what Pemba means?”

“Born on a Saturday,” said MacArthur immediately.

“Or more rarely...it means ‘Invincible’,” Drake argued. “Clearly...I am not.”

“No, I think you have made a good case for invincibility in your time as Darkwing Duck. I know so much about your childhood growing up, your time as a member of that little street gang, that you yourself turned over to the police, and that you later took all their hidden back up stash of money under their hideout, just for yourself, so that you could start fighting crime…” Darkwing felt a twist of shame at this. So he hadn’t gotten away with it. “But when you became Darkwing, things became a little more...skewed. So why don’t we start with that?”

And so it was. Darkwing was questioned about everything. Every case. Every file. Every villain he fought, bad guy he beat. Every law he had himself crossed over in the line of justice, and there were a few times he had broken in to investigate a place. Every bit of property damage. Every small tiny detail of his Darkwing life, from fighting Taurus Bulba, and the painful subject of his adopting a daughter.

MacArthur almost glossed over things at first when he begged to know about Gosalyn’s well being, but then decided to be fair and gave him the low down.

“She’s safe, and no longer in St Canard. Though don’t suspect you will see her again, not for a very long time. She’s under witness protection. She has a new name. A new set of parents, a new school and a new life. For her own sake, you should let it be, everyone knows your secret identity now and many villains would target her to punish you...in fact, thanks to Tom Lockjaw, I probably can’t get away with pinning the blame on you for all of this mess...he caught all the evidence on tape, for all the world to see. At most I could have you deported. Your paperwork is not legal, I’m afraid...however...”

Drake could feel the screwball coming, and couldn’t decide whether to bunt it, or go for broke and try for the home run.

“As a patriot, I would actually prefer to have the American citizen responsible brought to justice...do you understand?” he turned his head sideways. “This is worse than friendly fire. Americans created a bomb, it was stolen by terrorists, and due to interference from an American superhero, it detonated and destroyed a rather large suburban center, and killed a lot of people. Now, if the public is to be made happy, we need an American, someone from our own side, to bring to justice. F.O.W.L can’t be blamed now; we have the footage, we have the audio recordings from Derrick Blunt of catching some of the terrorists and them saying the bomb was taken by someone on our side...and then the explosion. People on the streets want the U.S. to pay the penalty for this mistake, they want American accountability, in this age of internet and cell phones everyone has access to the news…” he tented his fingers in front of him. “Pointing fingers at the wrong person is just going to give them a martyr to rally behind, a reason for political unrest. You see? We need a villain to bring to justice.”

Drake didn’t see. He was trying to work it through in his mind what MacArthur was trying to say.

“I’m sorry, maybe I’ve confused you,” MacArthur crossed his legs. “We want Gizmoduck. Is that plain for you? The entire world knows it was him, but he’s so popular he’s got the entire city of Duckburg saying you framed him, on purpose, on camera. It's a very very convincing conspiracy.”

“Nothing you say could be the truth!” Drake countered. “For all I know, you already have him locked up!”

“We don’t,” said MacArthur. “We know nothing about him...not even his name. And arresting Gizmoduck is like trying to arrest Taurus Bulba. Remember, thirteen people died when we caught that man, and remember how many died when he broke free of prison in his ship? He didn’t have a huge cybernetic suit at the time and a lot of people died. Since Gizmoduck, with his amazing armor and artillery, is still at large, we’re at a loss to catch him, he could fight back easily, and we can’t risk that he wouldn’t kill to stay free, stay the freedom fighter the people think he is...We need somebody to put in jail! It can’t be you, frankly, because if we follow the letter of a law, you are innocent, and will just be deported for lacking legal paperwork. And nothing is worse for dealing with genocide on friendly soil then letting the bad guy go home…”

Drake blanked, his eyes widened.

“Genocide?”

“Yes Drake...genocide. Over eighty thousand people lived in the area affected. Twelve thousand died, many more were wounded...it's only been eight days and we're still pulling bodies out of the debris...so you need to consider this. People are frothing at the mouth to find a culprit, a scapegoat, or a martyr, someone to pay the price for all of this mess, and you can give us that...we need his name, Drake, so we can arrest him. His real name.”

Drake floundered.

“Justice Ducks code number one is never to reveal a hero’s secret identity. He could have family that could be targeted by villains. Family!”

MacArthur pulled the glass over close to him, and filled it with water. He didn’t drink it. He pushed it over in front of Drake pointedly...Drake whose...hands were tied behind his back.

“So he does. That is a concern. And we will deal with his family as we have done with yours. We will protect them. But you must know that we cannot let any person go who was responsible.”

“I can’t do what you’re asking.”

“Do you want to be an American, Drake?”

“I am an American,” Drake said, gritting his teeth.

“You are so little an American now. And certainly no patriot…”

“I am a patriot…” Drake gritted. “I’ve been protecting this city…”

“But you won’t bring this one criminal to justice!” MacArthur launched to his feet, suddenly angry, and Drake was unset. “You claim to be a crime fighter, you claim to be American, but you won’t give us the information we need to make an arrest!”

“It was an accident! He’s not a villain! I know he was just trying to help!”

“Drake Mallard!” he whirled, and slammed his hands on the table. “Are you a patriot or not!”

“I am!”

“Prove it! Tell me his real name!”

“I won’t!”

The glass was grabbed, and the water tossed right into his face.

Drake blanked. He gasped, the feeling of drowning...Terror suddenly filled him, the days of torture came back to him and he cried.

“Please, I can’t, I just can’t!”

MacArthur sat down, calmly, and poured another glass of water. And smiled.

“Let's start this all over again...Pemba Choden…”

And he did. It was excruciating. He re-asked every single question again, repeating their entire interview, and to Drake’s surprise, slipped in a few he hadn’t asked that Drake hadn’t realized hadn’t been asked before, as if testing him to see if he was telling the truth.

MacArthur may have already known the answers to every single question before the interrogation. He may have known nothing. He was seeing how much Drake’s confessions were honesty, the truth, and how much he was saying just to not repeat the torture again. He didn’t want lies.

And he was upended, every time he refused to name Gizmoduck, by a glass of water, flung in his face, and that feeling again, that feeling of drowning, of absolutely drowning, and falling down.

He was taking a deep breath, face wet, when MacArthur finally tried a different tactic…

“You must really be loyal to the Justice Ducks…”

“Yes…” all the feathers on his skin stood on end.

“A shame really...if we can’t get him, we’ll have to blame the Justice Ducks as a whole...deny they were ever deputized, or ever involved officially. You do understand that many of them are now in our custody?”

Drake froze. This man could be lying. Probably was.

“You’re lying…”

“Perhaps...but can you risk that I am not?”

Anger filled him. Anger he didn’t know he had left.

“You…”

“I imagine that Morgana Macawber with her magic will be infinitesimally interesting, not nearly so dangerous as her vampiric abilities now that she’s made her final transformation. Interesting thing that…she’ll need blood every week or so or turn into an ancient corpse. A person’s blood, not an animal like the T.V. would tell you, I wonder where she’ll get it? Her fellow prisoners? We certainly won’t give it to her. You know we had to use Magica DeSpell’s old cell in the women’s prison for her...very hard to contain a vampire or a witch...really...”

“You’re lying…” Drake said...teeth gritted. “Lying…”

“The mutants...very fascinating...such interesting transformations...and how useful their powers would be to the FBI, I’m sure they would do anything not to spend any time in jail...even join the military…”

“You….you wouldn’t!”

“Nightswan has some cat burglaries she was never arrested for before she made the switch over to the hero side...she’ll be behind bars for some years...at least…”

“You…” he growled, feeling the fire ignite under him in a way that it rarely did in all his years as Darkwing.

“And Stegmutt is a prehistoric creature, a former duck, too strong and too dangerous for an ordinary cell, I understand they’ve begun building a big titanium cage for him at the museum...for the viewings...got to pay the bills.”

“You…” his anger was at boiling point, he was ready to explode. 

“And our government doesn’t even consider Neptunia a sentient being…” he sat up right, looking Drake dead in the eye, watching the fury smouldering up inside those eyes. “I know a laboratory at the University that would love to dissect her…”

“All right enough you sonuvabitch!!” Drake screamed, jumping in his chair and pulling on his cuffs as far as they could, cutting off the blood flow in his wrists. “I’ll do it god damn it! Just let them all go! Let them go free!”

“Of course, of course, please sit, don’t injure yourself...are you thirsty?”

Drake gasped, and shrinked back when MacArthur held the water glass to his lips so he could drink.

He realized that, besides the waterboarding, he hadn’t had a drink of water in almost nine days. He drank thirstily, and MacArthur was barely smiling.

“Your friends will go free with no charge, and you’ll be given a work visa to stay in this country, I think that is fair…” MacArthur sat down at his chair. “You can continue doing your Darkwing work, and the Justice Ducks theirs. I think it's infinitely fairer than subjecting the city to life without super heroes. And the name…?”

MacArthur already knew it. Drake was sure this man, who knew everything, already knew Fenton’s name...he just wanted Drake to be the one to name him.

“Fenton Crackshell…” Drake whined, and looked down at his prison shirt, now soaked again from having water splashed in his face from a cup. His shirt had not been dry since the first day of his torture.

“All right, this is how it's going to happen,” said MacArthur. “We will have a mock trial, for you, at the court downtown. We’ll have a proper judge, and proper prosecutor, but the defense attorney and jury will be Federal agents, and so will much of the gallery, all of them secretly armed for the arrest. The media will have to be there, so there can be full accountability with the public, transparency is what they have been so ferociously demanding. We’ll invite Scrooge McDuck to attend to...support Launchpad McQuack. Your poor sidekick is a witness after all. And I can’t imagine Gizmoduck will not go with him, he won’t be able to resist the temptation to be at your trial, since it’s you, he’ll be there. Though if he isn’t, we can drag the trial out long enough, over several days, to lure him in. We’ll have someone there stop him from transforming into Gizmoduck if he doesn’t arrive there in his armor, we doubt he will come to do little more than watch...and all you have to do is answer all the defense attorney’s questions honestly. Tell the truth. Point him out in the gallery. Its the easiest thing in the world, Drake. The truth…”

“And nothing but the truth…?” Drake said, voice hollow, eyes starting to brim with the beginning of tears, the guilt filling him with its boatloads of emotional refugees.

“Remember the survivors Drake...remember the thousands of St Canardians now without homes...”

“The Muddlefoots,” Drake said, thinking of them almost immediately.

“Yes, your neighbors,” MacArthur’s voice was soothing now, and reassuring. “You are doing the right thing, Drake. You are a patriot. I’m proud of you.”

Somehow, having this man proud of him, only made him feel infinitely more guilty.

“Until the trial we’ll temporarily hold you at the St Canard penitentiary, in isolation of course. We wouldn’t risk having the villains there take their revenge on you. You’ll have a nice long chance to recover and prepare, but I wouldn’t advise changing your tactics, you will get what you want, only after we get what we want, not before,” he poured another glass of water. “Remember Drake, the American people will always get what they want, in some way or another. All we’re doing, is giving them the truth, and giving them justice.”

Justice had never seemed so sour a word in his life.

\----------

It happened exactly the way MacArthur described. Drake spent some weeks at the Supervillain prison, in isolation, with no knowledge really of what was going on in the outside world. The warden stopped by to check on him from time to time, and the guards, but that was it. The new warden, Chalmers, was a gray haired old military type, and had made a drastic turn around of the prison security, with almost no break outs recorded in the last two years. The less dangerous offenders were sent to the Supermax Prison in Spoonerville, so this was a tough place to be, full of some of the toughest prisoners in the region. The prisoners in the other cells had welcomed Drake into the prison with catcalls and shouting, sticking mirrors out of their cell door windows to see him as he approached, so clearly they knew he was there.

He was put into a cell in the new section, built on top of the old prison. The old prison was cement bricks with prison bars. These new cells were iron bolted metal boxes with bullet proof glass windows and artificial flooring for comfort, with all modern amenities. The old cells just had bunks and a toilet and sink. This cell boasted a lockable cupboard, to store personal belongings, places for extra clothing and personal items, shelves, and a little built in desk for doing maybe homework if one was getting a distance education, which this prison offered now. And it was properly heated and cooled, with impressively escape proof ventilation. Drake had never seen this part of the prison, and found his bunk to be pretty comfortable, and he could see the city at a distance from his window.

The city was maybe the only thing keeping him focused and on task. He meditated in the mornings when he woke. He ate the awful food which, really, was worse than the food at the immigration center, but it was food, and he would need the energy. He requested, and was happily given, a rubber prison pencil, the kind you couldn’t stab anything with because it was so flexible, and they let him draw and scribble to his heart’s content on some random work forms they gave to prisoners who had to work as part of their sentence, so they could track their work hours.

Drake discovered when he was brought in that he had been granted a commissary account, and to his utter astonishment it actually had $20 in it, probably sent as a thank you from MacArthur. So he took the form they brought him and ordered some infinitely more tasty food to supplement his diet, in the form of candy and chips. A fresh change of underclothes and some toiletries to get him through until his trial, a deck of playing cards and bottled water. He wasn’t going to drink from a cup, or straight from the tap. Probably not with any comfort for a long time. He was astounded when they brought him what he ordered, and a fresh form if he wanted to get more. 

_God! Prisoners have it so good these days! Seriously!_

He hated himself for that thought. These were things he had, in the past, petitioned for an increase for in this prison, since happy prisoners who were working hard on their education and prison work were more likely to rehabilitate then frustrated prisoners with nothing to do.

He was fooling himself though. It was easy, easy to look at this and think, these bad guys have it so good, they have a store they can buy candy from. Most prisoners only saw two meals a day...he thought about how Elmo complained at how hungry he always was when he was in prison. Candy was empty calories.

As a cheeky nod, he also bought a greeting card for ten cents, on which he wrote, “Having a great time, wish you were here,” in bold statement, with an XOXO, that he had the guards take to Negaduck, who had been there, actually, for a very long time now. So long now, in fact, that on the day Drake had been brought in he had spotted, carved into one of the prison social area tables, ‘THIS BELONGS TO NEGADUCK, SIT HERE AND DIE’ carved deeply into the plastic top.

Negaduck sent him a card back. With the words, “Wish we were roomies,” written in big red ink letters, with a little knife with blood droplets drawn next to it. Drake didn’t report the threat, he just laughed and laughed...

Life in solitary was not the best either, he would have been happy to sit at Negaduck’s table, anything to get some living breathing company. He was desperate for conversation. The playing cards were only mildly entertaining and didn’t challenge him at all. The rubber pencil was knotted by him several times when he was bored, to see how many times he could knot it. He didn’t have enough money to buy a radio, and he didn’t have access to a T.V. or newspapers, he had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

When he was finally removed from temporary holding for his trial, he told the prison guards to give all his prison items to Negaduck...to their astonishment.

_Our relationship is one of those things where, even the tiniest kind gesture is considered an insult now. I wonder if they understand that?_

He had used the pencil to draw, as subtle as possible, Darkwing was here, on the wall of his cell, hoping, praying, the staff wouldn’t wash it off. He would pay to be the fly on the wall when the next cell’s occupant entered this place and saw that.

It would be the last time he ever came back to this place as an occupant, he swore it, to himself, and to the world. Darkwing Duck was not a criminal. He wanted the whole world to know this.

And he wanted his friends desperately to understand why he was doing this. Why he was going to trial, telling the world, sharing another hero’s secret with the rest of the universe.

Justice, bitter justice though it was, and he was a Justice Duck. The rest of his team had to survive this. He had to believe that. He couldn’t believe anything else. Anything else could have been a lie.

Even the truth. He was absolutely terrified that he would die, behind bars, and nobody would ever know the truth.

The truth: that he was scared of that glass of water, that room, and that man, MacArthur, and never wanted to go back there ever again. He would do anything not to go back there again.

Even betray a friend.

\-----------

Drake was shaking, his shoulders heaving, but he was fortunate that he wasn’t having a panic attack, on no, instead he leaned into the warm body beside him, leaning into the comforting hand on his back, watching the last shadow of the prison going by, without a word said between them.

“Drake…” Gladstone’s voice was hoarse. “Oh my god…I can’t believe it...they _tortured_ you?”

Drake just nodded, tears welling up and pouring down his bill to the railing. The people on the ship had all been directed to a different sight, thank God, and had all moved off to the side of the ship. The shoreline of the bay was passing them by with its maze of culturally appropriate points of interest, the small town of _La Canarda,_ from which the rest of the attached city got its name, was now the subject of frenzied camera snapping. 

“That is illegal Drake, you need to tell someone, you need to sue!”

“Maybe...and maybe be deported. I’m always being watched by agents these days, you know. I’m surprised that I haven’t seen any on this boat. You know what they look like, plain nondescript suit, sunglasses, it's really kind of tacky, to be honest…”

“Oh my god Drake. I just can’t...I would sue every person from here to Washington!”

“You aren’t an illegal immigrant,” Drake countered, and shrugged. “Though, living in Tibet wouldn't be so bad. I spent a gap year before college at the monastery with my father. He taught me how to meditate, how to chant...pray. The Buddhist teachings. He pretended we weren’t related, not because he was ashamed of having Darkwing as his son, you understand...but there is a risk when you live in Tibet, from the government, having such a person as Darkwing Duck in the family.”

“I can understand that. I call two countries my home, proudly.”

Drake smiled, and sighed.

“There’s more for me to tell you anyways, the trial...I need to tell you about the trial while I still have the courage…”

“Yes, my uncle said it was all a sham…”

“It was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to leave you on a cliff hanger.
> 
> Please, any readers of Tibetan origin, if I have gotten anything wrong, please correct me, its the only way I'll learn!
> 
> I like the idea that after The King and his gang were arrested, Drake Mallard got to keep all their little hidden away stolen treasure. This was where I feel he must have gotten the money to start being Darkwing Duck, saving it until he was ready to fight crime. That's what I thought in my mind, anyways.
> 
> Amma and Nana are Tibetan for Mom and Dad, (again, let me know if I'm wrong, Tibetan people!)


	7. The Brightest Angels Fall The Fastest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terrible at writing courtroom scenes, just so you know. Let me know in the comments how I did.

The courtroom was packed. The gallery was full to the brim. A long swath of media and journalists, as promised, lined the back wall, all of them whispering and chatting to their crews over their earpieces, relaying information back to their newsrooms. A hum of sound thrilled over the room at his entrance, this time not in his gray-brown prison jumpsuit, but in normal clothes.

Bail had been set and posted for him to cover up his going to and from the rented hotel room the FBI was using as a cover location for their pre-trial meetings. Room service was on them. They hadn’t let him leave the hotel either, and he hadn’t felt safe doing so, just accepting the gray t-shirt and sweatpants they gave him gratefully, and requesting only bottled water and not indulging in too much room service on the Federal dime, knowing taxpayers were footing the bill. 

During the last three days he’d been given access to media, tv, and newspapers and MacArthur had been completely transparent. No, they did not have Stegmutt, Neptunia or Morgana in custody, that had been lies, but they did have most of the mutants and many of the sidekicks, including Lunala and Nightswan, all arrested on other pretextes...So yes, his threat over them going to jail was genuine. The others were all considered to be ‘still at large’. All of them would be cleared and free when all this was over.

It gave him little comfort though, as he was brought to sit at the defense table next to his lawyer. She was an elderly duck with dark feathers, gray hair, and bifocal glasses on her beak. She made Drake think of a particularly unpleasant school teacher, no nonsense and strict. He had also met her well before today, at his last briefing with MacArthur prior to the trial. The three days of meetings and introductions to the various players in the charade were meant to help him keep his focus on this as if he were on a mission undercover, and not a criminal on trial. The stint at the hotel was not just meant to be the taste of freedom that was almost, but not quite his. It had drawn him in the loop, showing him how the FBI worked on an assignment. But he didn’t feel any different from a criminal; his side of the deal wouldn’t be done until he had given them their man.

But the media had been reporting this as the great fall of the mighty hero, and many reports were that he would be getting the death penalty. The whole world was watching him right now, a world that had barely known his existence. He really hoped MacArthur would be able to keep the Chinese government from learning who his parents were. It was something he had been worrying about with his secret identity being revealed, but the man had agreed to protect his family, in general, not just Gosalyn. Maybe he would try to hold him to that. ‘Try’ being the operative word.

“Don’t worry Drake, this is as easy as homemade apple pie,” said the defense attorney, Mrs Shelley he thought she was called, he’d briefly blanked on her name. “Just tell the truth, right?”

_Shelley, yes, that’s it._

He didn’t speak, just nodded. He also noted that there was a pitcher of water and a couple glasses meant for the defense and prosecution to use, near the witness stand, in case they needed to clear their throats, or for the witnesses. He looked at that water display with an anxiety he hadn’t felt possible.

He absolutely despised MacArthur and his interrogation tactics. He would break this conditioning, somehow, but at this moment, he was absolutely terrified of a glass of water, and found himself staring at the water table for a very long time.

It helped keep him from looking backwards too often into the gallery towards Launchpad, who was sitting with Scrooge McDuck, and Fenton Crackshell, sure enough, was sitting smack in between them. Drake dared a glance over his shoulder, a peek. Scrooge McDuck’s face was serious, and Launchpad looked at him, a look of pained support and friendship. Drake could only sadly look back at him, and catch a look at Fenton before the duck saw him peeking…and...

_He’s…smiling. Mother pluck it all, he’s smiling!_

He quickly jerked his head around and felt a rage briefly fill him. He didn’t know why the man was smiling, when nobody else was, besides the journalists, his attorney, and the prosecutor, who looked like the cat who had caught the canary.

“All rise…”

Silence hushed over the shuffling crowd as everyone stood to their feet when the judge came in. He wasn’t entirely in the dark about this, he had been told that if the fugitive Gizmoduck came to the trial, he would be arrested immediately. He looked unflappable, this judge. Not a curly hair in his wig out of place on his canine head. And then Drake Mallard recognized him.

He had been the judge presiding over many supervillain trials that he had been a witness at. Specifically that one time when Drake had been forced by Binkie Muddlefoot to adopt Tuskernini as a house guest. He hadn’t liked Darkwing Duck one bit.

_Eeeeeeeeeee…this isn’t going to go down well with him…_

Both attorneys gave their opening statements. The Prosecutor went on length about Darkwing, to the point where he was beat red from humiliation at having his Darkwing Duck heroism compared to that of a bumbling subpar criminal and vandal getting caught on his way into a bank vault. In strong contrast, the defense attorney, a Federal agent who had been prepared for any eventuality, had prepared an opening statement of nothing less than a parade of every heroic sacrifice Darkwing Duck had ever made, including the final note: restarting the very rotation of the world when F.O.W.L. had held the planet hostage. That information had not been revealed to the public, and a few hushed sounds had filled the room, sounds of disbelief. She preened at the dramatic effect of her praises of Darkwing, and his embarrassed humiliation from before was replaced with embarrassed pride.

In the following hours, both the prosecution and defense presented all their accumulated physical evidence, a passel of S.H.U.S.H. and civilian witnesses were called up, Launchpad going first on the bench and admitting that his memory was flawed so many times that the judge dismissed his testimony as being unreliable. Darkwing wondered if Launchpad had done that intentionally, and he gave Launchpad a confused look that Launchpad returned with a guilty shrug. A break was called for a recess so everyone could have lunch, and the defense promised that she would be calling him up soon.

“Remember, you have chosen to remain silent, which is your right, until the time we agreed upon...and right now the prosecution is going over the history of all the explosions you’ve caused in the past. Allowing him access to you before we broach the subject of Gizmoduck is a very bad idea.”

“The tower…?”

“Exactly...I’ll be presenting counter evidence that shows Taurus Bulba’s ship shooting at the machine to try and kill you…which may have been partially responsible for its overload.”

“I overloaded that machine on purpose,” Drake felt nausea hit him. “That’s a lie…”

“Perhaps. But we can’t give them any iota of doubt that could take this trial away from the direction we want it to go in. Even in a fake trial, we need to be the ones controlling the narrative.”

Drake really wished this was a real court. He wanted the truth bared for all the world to see. Even as he was led back to his seat in the courtroom, he could feel eyes on the back of his head, watching him, judging him...

And the heat was starting to get to him. He’d had bottled water in the waiting room, whilst he and his attorney talked, but now, he was thirsty again, and that pitcher of water and empty glasses were just sitting there…

He froze. The judge had not come in yet, people were sort of waiting, casually, for the prosecutor to return as well, there was a bit of a to do over clearing away old evidence from the table and bringing in new items and their labeling. Over at the water table, a man had gone up there to pour a glass of water. He turned around.

Drake looked him straight in the eye. MacArthur didn’t blink. He walked over to the defense table, ignored Mrs Shelley, and put the glass down in front of Drake.

“Drink, you’ll dehydrate yourself the way you avoid it…”

Drake felt every molecule of fear and hate all osmosing together inside him as one, and he didn’t touch the glass. Mrs Shelley said nothing, but MacArthur had been sitting behind him in the gallery, with the other witnesses, and he was very nearby. Near enough that Drake could smell his cologne. Actually a rather nice brand, very expensive, to his nose.

_God if it's the last thing I’ll do, I’ll break this conditioning, this fear...break this chain hold he has over me now...I swear…_

Everyone rose as the judge returned, and the recess ended, and the evidence brought forward, just as Shelley had said, for the Taurus Bulba caper. 

Drake stayed silent. He was exercising his right not to testify, he kept telling himself, and listening to the attorney, remembering that everyone in the jury had been told to render the predetermined verdict, this was all theatre...but he felt acid inside him as the whole story was turned upside down, and bile, and dread as his daughter was discussed at length, and the name they used for her was Gosalyn Waddlemayer.

He covered his face with his hand before anyone could see the tears.

It was all spread out over the course of three days, and Drake felt a panic in his chest at each new recess, each new return to his hotel room. What if Fenton didn’t stay the whole time? What if he only came back for the verdict? And yet, as if on cue, he arrived, well pressed and groomed, sitting between Scrooge McDuck and Launchpad McQuack, and...lightly smiling. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was in character as Scrooge’s accountant not associated with Darkwing all that well, or because he was enjoying the court drama. Maybe he was distancing himself from it all. Or maybe he was secretly enjoying Darkwing’s downfall.

_Or maybe, I really hope this is true, he knows I’m going to be free, he just knows it, and is looking forward to it._

Drake’s instincts were telling him no. But then again, maybe they were a little rusty these days.

When the subject of the actual bomb dropping, and Gizmoduck as the hero who dropped the bomb was finally brought up, Drake felt such an enormous sense of relief, and genuinely relaxed a little, waiting to be called, knowing that the Defense attorney had decided not to tell the Prosecution, just yet, that Drake had agreed to break his silence to testify.

Being called to the stand was a strange feeling. He almost didn’t feel like he was there, detached from the drama that came with his breaking his silence. He had his hand on his heart, gave his affirmation that he would tell the truth, almost too quietly for his own ears, and sat in the witness stand, almost too quickly for his own sake. He looked out over the courtroom...

Fear seized him. Panic. So many eyes. The room was so much different from up here. He knew the attorney had seen his distress, as she handed him his water bottle, which he had requested during the recess after MacArthur had poured him the other drink. He accepted it with trembling hands. Drinking the water gave him the courage to look at the room again, fortifying himself…

Fenton was still slightly smiling, but he was looking at the prosecution, almost as if he was looking off into the distance. Scrooge McDuck was looking straight at Drake, with a tense, almost angry look in his wizened face, a hard look that was judging him top to bottom. Launchpad...was not there. Drake was almost startled. He was not there, and he couldn’t find him in the audience. He had gone. Where had he gone? His seat next to Fenton in the aisle was now empty.

_So many people...so many eyes..._

He had the unreal sensation of floating. And the defense attorney plied him with carefully worded questions, designed by their team to lead him to the inevitable conclusion of all this mess.

“Would you say, Mr Mallard, that you are very well acquainted with the man known as Gizmoduck?”

“Yes…”

“How acquainted?”

“Objection, that is a leading question…” It was the first thing the prosecutor had said since he had gone to the stand.

“Question withdrawn, let me rephrase that. Would you say that you are acquainted well with the man known as Gizmoduck, outside of fighting crime?”

There it was. Drake didn’t even look at the gallery, focused only on the attorney.

“Yes I am. We’re...friends.”

“Friends…” she moved over a bit, so that his view was not blocked. “Do you know his real name?”

Even the prosecutor wanted to know this, his dog snout suddenly perked up eyes glittering.

“Answer the question please Mr Mallard,” said the judge, a little too quickly. He wanted to know too.

“Yes...I do,” said Drake.

He was really really glad, Fenton hadn’t been the one to tell him. It had been a Launchpad slip up, and he would always be forgiven by everyone for a slip up.

But this. Would never be mistaken for that.

“You know his name...can you tell us now, Mr Mallard, is the man known as Gizmoduck in the courtroom right now?”

Drake panicked. A moment passed, where his chest turned into a white hot weight.

“Answer the question, Mr Mallard.”

The vague smile was gone on his counterpart’s eyes, his pupils widened, and the vague interest was replaced with a look a cat gets when it’s cornered. Fenton didn’t _know_ that Drake was aware of his secret identity. Sure Fenton had stayed at his house many times over the years, with much argument, but had never openly divulged he was Gizmoduck. And Drake had never revealed his Darkwing identity either. Both pretended to be blissfully unaware of the truth...but they both had been, he was certain of that. Fenton was too clever to be kept ignorant for that long. It had never been verbally spoken, and now. Now...

“Yes, he’s here…” said Drake, feeling his tears welling and then falling and his chest rising and falling, in matching time. 

“Can you point him...out...to...us…?” 

The attorney barely got her chance to finish because his hand had risen as she was speaking, almost mechanically, finger pointed, vision turning into the liquid water he feared drowning in, his eyes and his bill a river of his own personal hell. Since he didn't know, couldn’t see exactly where he was pointing to, he spoke, and his voice was hoarse, and raw, and filled with guilt and begging for forgiveness in the four bare syllables he could utter.

“Fenton...Crackshell…” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve, collapsing into bitter tears.

The look of a cornered cat was gone...replaced with what Drake could only recall, in that moment, a mixture of complete horror, shock, betrayal...and then the anger, the anger as Fenton Crackshell jumped to his feet, his chair flying backwards.

“You traitor!” he shouted, voice rising. “You absolute traitor!” and then he did it.

He did it.

“Blathering Blatherskite!”

And.

Nothing.

Fenton’s face was filled with absolute and utter horror.

Because Launchpad had left...and he had taken Fenton’s briefcase with him.

The whole gallery erupted with sound and noise. Hundreds of agents, no longer indulging the mock trial, had surrounded their target, guns raised. Scrooge McDuck was dragged safely away, kicking and screaming, “A sham! It was all a ploy to steal my accountant!” The judge banged his gavel uselessly calling for order, the prosecutor was shouting at the defense attorney, and she wasn’t taking his lip. The whole room was in chaos.

Drake couldn’t look away from Fenton now, as he was cuffed and hauled out, the look of anger and rage soon joined by one that he had never in his life seen in the man’s eyes before.

Hate. Loathing. Absolute loathing. For him and only him.

When their eyes finally broke contact, Drake broke down into helpless sobbing and was only brought around by the sudden sensation of water being thrown into his face and a washcloth wiping him dry.

“Up, come on, get up, the judge has called for a recess, now,” his attorney was pulling him to his feet where he had crawled down onto the ground from the bench to vomit.

“Don’t...do...that!” Drake hissed. “With the water...just don’t!”

“Sorry,” she looked not sorry at all. She probably didn’t know what it did to him mentally to have that happen. “Let’s go, we’ll get you cleaned up, the recess will be overnight, the whole enchilada. It might be called a mistrial and thrown out, we hope the judge does that, so we can simply drop all charges...but if not…”

Drake hoped so too. He would give his knees and elbows not to have to do this again. He didn’t feel like he had either as he stumbled out of the courtroom into a quiet room for waiting.

He was startled by strong familiar arms helping him to sit at a table, handing him water in a bottle, and a familiar, welcome voice talking calmly to him.

“Hey, hey, don’t be upset, it’ll be alright, I promised Jay Gander Hooter you’d get out of this all right, and I meant it.”

Drake looked up into Launchpad McQuack’s soulful trusting eyes and felt his guilt further indulged.

“Launchpad...it's not alright, it's never been alright, and never will be alright. I just betrayed one of my closest friends in the world...over water…”

“Water?”

Drake took the bottle and drank from it, and buried his head in his sidekick’s shoulder, and sobbed. Sobbed for all he was worth.

\--------

MacArthur was as good as his word. The release of all remaining Justice Ducks was seen to, including pardons for any outstanding criminal activities that many of them had been holding onto, like Nightswan’s cat burglaries. And in an envelope, crisp and new, a passport, and a work visa, and copies of all his legal paperwork from Tibet, and immigration forms to apply for US citizenship.

In a few days the trial was indeed thrown out by the angry judge, who ordered a retrial, but Drake knew there wouldn’t be one. As he and launchpad were leaving the court with his defense attorney, both of them were come upon by Scrooge McDuck, who looked them over with the most ugly glare of contempt.

“You call yourself a hero, a champion of justice, yet you agree to participate in this trap, this mockery of all things democratic, ach!” he spat at Drake’s feet.

“Mister McDuck!” Launchpad protested, so stricken and horrified that Drake had to keep at least their relationship intact or he would never be able to look himself in the mirror in the morning.

If he ever could.

“No, Launchpad, he’s right, it was a trap, and I knew it…”

Scrooge huffed, and stomped right passed them, out the doors.

Launchpad was almost too forgiving and loyal. He had been the one to steal the Gizmosuit before the Feds could get their hands on it, and thus he felt that he and Drake were on even stevens for participating in this sham trial, but Drake didn’t really think so. Launchpad had been under orders by S.H.U.S.H. to get the briefcase before anyone else did, and take it outside of the courtroom where he would hand it over into the safe hands of its creator, Gyro Gearloose. That way, if Darkwing had been forced to identify Gizmoduck at trial, the government couldn’t take the suit for their own, possibly military, use.

It was all a bitter pill though, the weeks that followed his aquittal. Moving into the tower again and finding that all his Darkwing Duck paraphernalia had been taken by Launchpad to his airfield to protect it in case the government had decided to claim it all. The lone cot in the center of the empty cold tower room where he lived was telling, as damp and heartless as any prison. Just an orange crate for a table and a broken water pipe along one side of the tower where he refilled his empty plastic water bottle.

Fenton Crackshell was tried under the charge of involuntary manslaughter, he pled not guilty, but was found guilty on the overwhelming amount of evidence and sentenced to life, with a chance for parole anytime. The government was probably going to free him, they would just wait a few years for the rebuilding to be completed and the storm to partially blow over from the chaos of both trials before doing so. Drake hadn’t looked at him when he was brought to testify on the witness stand. He was in the court for one day of the trial, and didn’t come back for the verdict or sentencing. He could not stand to see that look of hatred in the other man’s eyes.

The Justice Ducks formally summoned him to the Headquarters a week after, and Morganna, the new President, hair now pure white, eyes now pure red, gave him no quarter.

“The number one rule is never to divulge the secret identity of any superhero, even at the cost of your own life!”

“But Morgana!” Launchpad protested. “Do you know what they put him through?”

“No,” Darkwing gave Launchpad a rejecting shake. “It doesn’t matter what they did, it wasn’t worth losing Gizmoduck on the team, or that friendship…”

He hadn’t told them his admission had come at the price of their own freedom, he knew they would have preferred life in prison to indulging in such an act of treason.

“You are henceforth barred from being a hero or sidekick of the Justice Ducks. If you want to return to working with us, the only role open to you is fan club member. So there you are. What have you to say for yourself?” 

He looked them all over, some faces angry, others crying, and felt, felt it almost had been worth it. They were going to keep going. Justice Ducks would survive, this is as he had wanted it, exactly. But for how long, he couldn’t be sure. They looked so broken now, their numbers had shrunk by the number that had quit following all this mess, and the ones who had died in the bomb blast. He mentally said a prayer for them all.

“There is no justice left in the city of Saint Canard, none but the Justice Ducks. I wish you all luck.”

And he turned and left, and never looked back.

\--------

Drake couldn’t even shed a single tear as he told this story. He was just so hollow inside now, it was such an empty echoing pain that tears almost seemed an indulgence.

A third party perspective was always unique. Sitting in the front seat on the roller coaster was different than being the person on the ground, watching the high speed carriage going by.

“I really think you need to tell them all,” Gladstone said, as soon as the story was finished. “I know you’re not ready, but you went to hell and have the scars to prove it,” he put his hands on Drake’s slack shoulder. “You are not the evil person you have filled yourself with the lie of, this ugly traitor you see yourself as is not you. You were forced, by torture, blackmail, to confess, to testify, and you need to get the truth out. Heck, if the world knows you were tortured, your testimony against Fenton could be thrown out as unreliable evidence. They could call a new trial…and you know this government would never get away with deporting any Tibetan back to China, _ever_.”

“I know…reasonably I know this, in my head,” Drake couldn’t help but reflexively look over his shoulder. “Yet I’ve been dreading every nightfall, going to my tower, to the cot, to sleep, wondering if MacArthur will be there with a glass of water. I haven’t bathed, I don’t shower, I wash myself with a cloth,” he looked almost completely horrified at himself. “I drink only out of bottles, when I can,” he added, and Gladstone got an angry look in his eyes.

“I noticed with the sparkling water you barely touched it,” Gladstone shook his head. “An evil has been done to you, evil, a duck who can’t bear the touch of water. Drake…”

He shrugged, and then the tears came and he buried himself in the other man’s chest, so completely comfortable with this action, it felt so right. Gladstone was barely an acquaintance when they met, now Drake had poured out the entire contents of his soul to the other man, feeling his misery was now finally shared, and it felt right.

He also discovered Gladstone’s own cologne was extremely fancy and very nice. He committed it to memory indulgently, even as he remembered himself, remembered that this was the future Richest Duck On Earth, and thus he pulled himself together with a hasty laugh.

“Well, you now know everything about me huh?” he said, pointedly separating from the embrace.

“Sure do…” Gladstone seemed nonchalant about it all, and turned his body to watch the moving scenery. “You don’t need to worry about my Uncle by the way, I don’t think he likes you much, but…”

“I don’t know,” Drake moaned. “Poor Launchpad was devastated by that.”

“A reporter caught it on tape,” Gladstone said. “People have been calling it ‘Spittlegate’, it's been quite the trouble for us with the media. You don’t want the name 'McDuck' associated with spit, but there it is,” he laughed. “No, no, if Uncle Scrooge really hated you, he would walk right on past you, without a word.” Gladstone sounded like he was speaking from experience, his eyes looking momentarily distant. “Well, now, it's almost lunch time, and I think we should wait until we reach the islands to eat. There’s a little place there that sells the most fabulous fish and chips, and the boat will be docked for two hours while the tourists explore the place.”

Drake laughed.

“Fish and chips, sounds good to me.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I liked how this turned out, I may edit things later. I wanted to save Fenton's trial for whenever I get around to writing about Fenton's perspective, his side. I'm writing Drake and Gladstone's story to start with, so this is sort of my promise I guess that this will be a multi-part series? Maybe?


	8. Luck Be A Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to reiterate, this story is my own idea, inspired by all the Duck Universe, mostly meant to follow Darkwing Duck, but is not meant to be taken for canon in any way shape or form. I take a lot of liberties with the world and history of the shows and comics this is based on. Thank you.

Gladstone Gander was reeling from the implications of everything Drake Mallard had told him. His stomach was both nauseated and a boiling mass of rage and incredulity at the absolute gall of what this man had been put through by the FBI. Or maybe just a select few who knew about it. He wondered, he really wondered, if the current President who was all about breaking monopolies and power to the people knew what his own officers were doing in secret?

_MacArthur...I know him. I remember now, he was there when...we were told about the boys…_

Gladstone would have to tell his Uncle. He didn’t like telling other people’s confided secrets, but considering how...low an opinion his Uncle now had of Darkwing Duck, and how closely they had been working with the FBI, a bit of a reality check for all of them might be wise at this point, and would probably be welcome if he was honest. Scrooge had been reluctant to try any rescue missions to Sibearia for the boys without the government’s saying so. But he was desperately wanting to go. They all were.

_He might not be so reluctant if he isn’t as trusting of the government to do what they should, by law do, without getting something shady in return._

“So Drake,” said Gladstone. “We’re almost there, _Los Islas de Prosperidad_. You have a lot of film left? I could probably get another camera at the gift shop.”

Drake looked back down at his camera in his hands.

“About twenty…?”

“You’ll need more,” Gladstone said, without skipping a beat. “Have you ever been to the islands other than a fly over?”

“I’ve never actually been this way, that I recall,” Drake shook his head.

He was focusing on the endless bay with his eyes, not realizing that they were hugging the coastline for a reason... _'Islas’_ was a misleading term.

“Come this way,” Gladstone pulled him a little more towards the shoreline side of the boat, and Drake peered forward still, confused, and then blinked, repeatedly, when the shoreline cliff face they had been chugging along suddenly broken up into a long series of tall standing stones, like jagged teeth, cutting up out of the sea guarding over a hidden cove which they were moving slowly into.

Drake did start snapping pictures at once. One could not help it. These tall stone ‘islands’, some taller than the cliff face, were like giants, covered in sparse mats of green growing moss that made the stubbier ones look like they were growing hair. Some had exposed veins of white milky stone lending credence to their toothlike appearance, whilst others were glittering with the bling of hidden metals and precious minerals that were so valuable and rare it made this natural wonder a frequent source for vandalism. There were squat cage barriers around each of the biggest and most vandalized ‘teeth’ to keep people from being able to climb up onto them from the sea. Not much of a barrier against the more clever thieves really...One of the middle rock isles had the remains of an ancient lookout post, a wooden structure, little more than some wooden posts and broken clapboard now, but the stone had been leveled off with a ‘cut’ when the outpost was built, giving the tall stone the look of a broken tooth.

Along the back of the ‘mouth’ of the cove itself was a small tourist trap, nestled into the cliff wall rather nicely. There was a small park with an open area for picnickers with tables, a small play place for kids, a little shopping area with a gift shop, the fish and chips shack, and a couple other places to spend money. And separate from the cliff face, up a single spire of stone pointing out from the center of the cove, spiral stairs took you up to _La Diosa Fortuna_. She was hidden from view from the cove, you had to climb the stairs to get a peek, and take a picture or two. Somewhere behind that spire, hidden in the foliage, was a convent, with nuns, who prayed all around the clock for the pilgrims visiting the shrine.

The first level of the boat was crowded with people all eager to get off, many tourists in their tourist garb, with their cameras, and Gladstone made sure he was firmly glued to Drake’s side in the off chance he was recognized. He didn’t think so, a lot of these tourists were travellers from other parts of the state, at least he hoped so.

At last the ferry docked, and the orderly line shuffled off the boat, each person being asked if they had their reboarding pass to make sure they could get back on again. Reboarding was in two hours, exactly, at two o’clock.

“All right Drake, let's see, you want to eat first? It's a long climb up to the statue. Or we could eat after?”

Drake was taking pictures of the cove and the rocky teeth that encircled it with his camera, and he turned blankly to look at him.

“Not hungry yet…” he said, which was odd for a man who hadn’t eaten much in days. “Let's go see the Goddess now, while I still have film.”

Gladstone laughed, and cheekily decided he was going to buy another two cameras for this guy from the gift shop, if they had them. Knowing Gladstone’s luck, they probably would.

\---------

It was incredible. Drake was breathtakingly amazed at this secret little part of Calisota history he had never even known existed so close to St Canard! The cove with its rocky teeth ‘islands’ was sheltered from sight beyond the cove itself, the cliff faces were blanketed with trees and thousands of local native seabirds could be heard singing from their reaches, along with the usual smell of salt on the breeze, the Native history of this part of the United States really being on display in the architecture of the buildings here. Besides the tower shrine they were about to climb, there was also a path which you could take to visit _St. Calliope_ ’s convent, where the _Sisters of Endless Prosperity_ lived. That wasn’t where they were going though, not today.

The spire of rock and trees they were going to be climbing was already drawing the attention of tourists, but Drake was unphased. The path was well marked with protective metal pipe railings, and carved stone stair steps. Signs along the trail asked people not to litter, stay on the path, not to go climbing outside the path, and to respect the single-file rule on narrow portions of the trail. Gladstone, good as his word, had bought a second camera, and fresh bottles of water for them both, and kept him from going too fast up the stairs. He stopped to point out a particularly nice view from a stone outcropping in which to photograph the entire row of island rocks, and with his hand he further pointed out the peeking colors of St. Calliope’s convent through the trees on the cliff face.

“One day, when I have the chance, we’ll take my yacht here and spend a whole day exploring this place…go visit the convent...There’s a small fishing town near this cove that is just a treasure in and of itself...”

“You have a yacht?” Drake said, not rejecting the idea of actually spending a whole day visiting this place, in this man’s company.

He also immediately realized the irony of asking the CEO of McDuck industries if he had his own yacht. Obviously.

“Yes, she’s a sailing yacht, _Fortune’s Daughter_ ,” he said it with a deep sigh. “It was my mother’s boat...one of the few things I inherited from her that I still very much treasure.”

Ah. Drake looked up at the path as they continued, the line of tourists slowing a bit as people reached the top. There was a small queue to pray to the statue.

Drake was surprised. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. He wasn’t expecting the nice stone paved circular area where people could stand in a group and take pictures, and pray. The statue, carved right in the rock’s face from polished white marble, was a glowing beautiful example of the mixed cultural practices of this region. She was a Roman goddess carved in the style of a Catholic Saint with a veil over her hair and her hands outwards in supplication, as if inviting you in for a hug. Small flowering shrubs were growing naturally around her surrounding the stone clearing, and there were flowers being laid at her feet by tourists. Candles and burners were not permitted, so people put little mini offerings of fruit. Some people put pennies by her dainty little toes.

Drake stood back respectfully for the last few tourists to move out of the way so he could take his picture, then blanked.

“So...what do I do?”

Gladstone chuckled.

“Well, you put your hands together, and pray, and ask her for your wish. It doesn’t have to be out loud…”

Drake felt a little odd doing this in front of about over twenty people, but he felt almost calm as he whispered to himself what he wanted...more than anything in the world, to come true, even if he felt a little silly asking a statue to give it to him.

For a moment he looked up at her. And it almost seemed as if he could feel something. He stood back, and couldn’t take his eyes off her as Gladstone moved in to literally get on his knees to pray.

And then she winked.

It may have just been his imagination, or a trick of the light, but a few of the people nearby gasped a little. Did they see…?

 _Probably they recognized Gladstone,_ Drake thought, as the flash of a camera went off, and the duck got up and finally came over to him with a laugh.

“Well, there it is, hopefully I’ll be a married man by this time next year. I thought I’d give myself a bit more time than thirty days...what about you? What did you pray for?”

Drake watched the other tourists moving in for their turn and shrugged.

“Happiness,” he said, and added. “For me and for all the people I love.”

“Wow,” Gladstone looked back at the statue. “You really want to win the million dollars don’t you?”

Drake had almost entirely forgotten the bet, and he laughed.

“Actually, I couldn’t think of anything else, besides a million dollars, that I wanted. World peace, maybe, but I didn’t want to be rude…”

“I did say ‘anything’,” Gladstone shrugged and took one last picture with his cell phone. “Here, get beside me, and pose, I’ll take a selfie of us with the Goddess!”

Drake made a V with his fingers, and once they had all the pictures they wanted Gladstone led the way back down the stairs. Drake looked back at the statue, whose face now almost looked like it was smiling a little too widely.

_Something tells me that Gladstone is getting his wish...whether I get mine or not!_

\-------

Perhaps it was just the salty breezes getting to his head. Perhaps he was probably well on his way to getting his wish now. As he watched Drake Mallard devour the rather nice fish and chips as if they were gilded in gold and silver, Gladstone could almost feel the energy in the air between them had completely shifted.

He had always felt a considerable bit of magic in this place whenever he had visited, especially up at the statue itself, and he’d seen her legendary ‘wink’ a couple times. He’d left her flowers and coins several times, not this time, but only because he’d been with a companion and didn’t want him to think Gladstone overly religious. He really was not. Just in this one thing, this one magic, the luck. The money bin, with its lucky dime, was the only other place he felt magic like this, and he knew it was his luck recognizing the luck in others when he came to places like this and felt the hum of energy there.

But realistically he knew, from the moment he made his wish, that Fortuna may have already granted it to him. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. He certainly didn’t want to take advantage of a man who had been on his last dregs of life this morning when they’d met. But he was feeling that familiar feeling of attraction towards Drake Mallard, like a magnet, and feeling deadly ashamed of himself. He was already thinking that he was a likely candidate for romance, and he was feeling utterly awkward about it.

It had been the one thing he had always been terrible at. He always picked the wrong person, moved too fast, and when things broke down he bailed and mended himself as best as he could. Romance was even worse. If he stuck to the stereotypes, taking Daisy to movies and giving her flowers, for example, then he was fine. But real romance was lost on him. His self-consciousness must have been showing, for Drake suddenly looked at him with concern.

“You’re not eating, are you all right?”

“Ah, ha, yeah, I’m fine,” Gladstone poked his chips with his plastic fork. “Um...I wanted to know how...if you are enjoying your time here...with me...and…”

Very awkward. If Drake realized the source of his embarrassment he didn’t express it. He just smiled, genuinely.

“It's definitely something I’ll have to do again, I’m also definitely telling Launchpad to bring his wife here. You know they want children? And have probably zero chance of having them outside of a laboratory, but they will keep trying, I’m sure, until they are both gray.”

“Adoption…?”

“That’s what I said,” Drake shrugged. “Monique is stubborn, maybe, about wanting to be pregnant.”

“Tell me about her, we didn’t get much more than a random notice in the mail that there was a wedding and that we’d better be at it. I didn’t go. Most of us were in Europe...Uncle Scrooge went.”

“A lot of people were there from Duckburg, it was kind of a thing with the media…” Drake shrugged. “I would say she’s very good at knowing exactly what someone is about and you can’t pull the wool over her eyes about anything. She’s very enchanted by the ‘Flying McQuacks’ history. She’d have to be, being a pilot herself. And she’s dead loyal to her friends. Almost entirely too perfect for LP really…”

Gladstone leaned forward, fascinated, and glad for the change of subject, his stupid awkwardness would not help him in any shape or form with his friendship with Drake, he certainly didn’t want to ruin that in favor of an off-chance feeling of attraction…

And he momentarily regretted his wish. It made him way too aware of his travel companion in front of him, who was excitedly talking about the McQuack family’s air delivery service from St Canard to Cape Suzette, and everywhere in between.

“I’ll have to remember that if I ever want to fly to Cape Suzette. I think I’d rather travel with Launchpad McQuack…”

“Well he hasn’t crashed in years,” Drake admitted. “He’s really got a handle on his landings…”

“Well yeah, but his record, zero fatalities for all those crashes...Not many other pilots can boast that,” Gladstone countered, and patted his lips with a paper napkin. “Well we have just enough time to go visit the gift shop again if you want? I’ll pick you up a souvenir, a mini Goddess or something to hang onto…Or a soft serve cone? The ice cream here is pretty good too...”

“That’s fine, no statues though, please, seriously you’re spoiling me…” Drake said, pushing the empty fish and chips tray away.

 _Oh thank Luck and the Goddess!_ Gladstone picked up the garbage himself to take to the waste bin. _If his self-respect is back to the point where he’s refusing gifts as being too indulgent, then maybe...just maybe..._

Maybe he had gotten through to him. Maybe, just maybe, Drake Mallard now had recovered his will to live.

There was only one way to find out, when their trip ended at Duckburg and Drake Mallard returned to St Canard, all alone. But that would mean their fates would part again, and Drake Mallard would no longer be in his life, by his side, holding his hand as they had done when they had boarded the ship. When that had happened, it had been a man struggling not to die, gripping onto him in desperation for some answer to his suicidal thoughts.

Now, to his utter surprise, Drake grabbed his hand as they walked over to the soft serve stand, completely unaware at the implications behind this trusting and overt gesture.

But then again, maybe he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monique will be introduced later on at some point, not in this part. She gets to be a mystery, for the time being. ;) Only to happy to tease some of the new characters I've created for this universe.


	9. Puppy Intelligence

The route out of the cove was an easy one, around the other side of the cove, and then a one hundred and eighty degree turn, straight across the bay to Duckburg. It was an hour long cut of water with no sights to see but the distant length of the Audubon Bay Bridge, which stood as a rather impressive feat of engineering. Spanning between St Canard, and Duckburg, it had been the longest bridge in the world at the time of its original construction.

Naturally, other projects had taken the title since, but it was still an amazing bridge, and though it was called the Audubon Bay Bridge, it was colloquially known as ‘Bonnie Bridge’ in Duckburg, and ‘The Bay Bridge’, in St Canard. Drake leaned on the railing of the ship, by himself for a change, and felt out of sorts waiting for Gladstone to come out of the men’s room.

Disoriented and giddy were the best words he had to describe this complete and utter feeling of companionship that had taken over his world. Being around Gladstone Gander, before praying to the Goddess, had felt like a teacher being led by a pupil. Now he felt as if he had known this man all of his life...and he wondered if maybe, just a little, if this was the famous Gander luck at work.

_The way he looks at me now…hoo boy..._

Drake recognized those looks, and had pointedly tried to ignore them. Try being the operative word. Gladstone was being very very reserved with his attraction, doing nothing more than ask that one awkward question at the picnic table where he had been staring at Drake, like a deer caught in headlights, trying to feel out how Drake felt about him.

_The poor guy is looking for love, and he’s probably looking at me. But I’m a suicidal depressed ex-superhero, totally inappropriate for him, or anyone else. He’s probably terrified of upsetting me in any single solitary way that will make me want to end it all…_

Drake wasn’t sure how he felt really. The whole thirty day bet thing was in the back of his mind as the excuse Gladstone had given him for staying in this world...and now…

Now he really wanted to see if the Goddess would grant their wishes. His, and Gladstone’s. He now considered Gladstone one of his friends, and he had prayed to the Goddess to grant happiness to all his friends, as well as himself. That included his newest friend to his way of thinking. And if happiness for Gladstone was marriage…

 _Not to me though,_ Drake pointedly thought to himself. _I’m way too broken, I’d just make him miserable in the end. I’m too needy and possessive. Too on the rebound from Morgana…_

Mentally he winced in pain, that old love still feeling too raw to heal from yet, or to move on. But he noted, not once had he even thought about the gender of his partner as anything important. He’d never had a boyfriend himself, but he’d never discounted the idea of being happy with someone of the same sex. It was just, there’d really only been Morgana for the longest time.

_It’s hard to move on. And now when I’m like this..._

Even now, he was looking out from the boat towards the bridge, but not down at the water. Not to the current, the current that was so much like the water he always felt was drowning him...always…

“So,” Gladstone came up behind him, causing him to jump a little. “Oh, sorry. I was going to say, when this ferry gets to Duckburg, it stops there for a few hours the same way it does at the cove, but it stays a little bit longer, it departs at seven to return to St Canard. Most of the tourists just get on tour buses for a trip out to Fort McDuck which takes up a fair chunk of that time. But I was thinking, you could hang out with me for the rest of the day instead…?”

“Oh, well,” Drake frowned. “Um, I guess that would be all right..”

“We could go clothes shopping for you!” Gladstone enthused. “Unless it really is too much charity for you…? You do need clothing...and a phone, how am I going to call you to make sure you are sticking to our bet?”

Drake laughed.

“Slow down! I don’t want to get used to being spoiled by you!”

“Nothing wrong with being spoiled when it's things you need, Drake,” Gladstone said, trying to be sensitive to the fact that yes, Drake Mallard was homeless and broke.

“Yeah, but I used to be so greedy, boy do I have stories…”

He recounted to Gladstone the story of Bushroot and his money tree, which took a better part of their crossing, and he was about to launch into another story when Gladstone tapped him on the shoulder and pointed toward the front of the ship.

“Look Drake...there it is…”

Getting his camera ready, Drake peered forward, amused by the ton of people already at the head of the ship. Gladstone pulled him to the front through the crowd himself, so Drake could get a good picture, and they both leaned forward, eyes focusing.

It was a little foggy here...but the low lying fog banks could not cover the rising tower of cement and pure golden bling that was Scrooge McDuck’s money bin. A foghorn blared somewhere in the distance, startling up a flock of birds which spiralled around the city of Duckburg and rolled in formation out across the bay. Dozens of boats were suddenly appearing around them out of the fog, big schooners, tiny fishing and leisure boats, that giant luxury ocean liner that had passed them before was now making its way out of the bay again. A huge freighter with its black painted hull and its load of shipping containers was slowly making its way from Duckburg’s massive industrial port ready for its trip out to sea, possibly to manufacturers overseas in China. But the ferry was heading towards the more pleasant tourist section of town; the Old Harbor. With its beautiful waterfront plaza of shops and parks, walkways, and abundant greenery, this was what St Canard had tried, and failed to do with its waterfront. But Duckburg always succeeded when it set its mind to beautifying itself. He may have only been here driving through on his way to other parts, but he had seen this town, and he knew it was something special.

“Duckburg has a law on the books that no building can be taller than the money bin,” Gladstone said impishly, as they wound their way around other tour boats and vessels. “The old city council had been horrified by the monstrosity when it was built, and made it a law to keep anything else that big from ever being built here, and the law stands to this day. Much of the city’s charm comes from its architecture, there are no massive skyscrapers, or big smoggy super highways. There’s a very strong city-wide respect as well, we don’t litter here, there’s very little traffic congestion downtown, and people obey the traffic laws. You’ll be hard pressed to find anything like that anywhere else.”

Drake felt it had to be seen to be believed. Where the Audubon Bay Bridge was always packed on the way into St Canard, traffic flowed out of the city towards Duckburg like a dream.

“It is beautiful,” Drake admitted, and checked to see how many pictures he had left before taking another of the bridge from this end of the bay.

He could see people moving along the walkways of the pier, and felt a sudden strange nervousness fill him when the ferry came in to dock.

“And you’re sure it will be here at seven?” Drake said, indicating the boat without pointing.

“Definitely,” Gladstone said. “But I really don’t want to send you back to St Canard without the necessities that will keep you...you know...all right...” it was awkward, but he didn’t seem to want to say the word ‘alive’. 

Drake had to trust him. He had to believe him. But a strange feeling of mistrust had come over him, and he didn’t know the source of it, but it wasn’t Gladstone himself. It was something else.

“Maybe I just feel like I’ve had too many ‘too good to be true’ experiences in my life, but I’m nervous, especially when people I’ve just met want to buy me a lot of things…”

“Totally,” Gladstone put his hands up. “I tell you what, if you ever at all, during the afternoon want to call it off, just say so, we’ll come straight back to the pier, okay?”

“All right,” Drake nodded, and turned to look out over the city again. “Maybe it's just this itchy need for me to get going, to go back home and see where that wish I made actually takes me.”

It wasn’t just him, but Gladstone gave him a look of pure delight. Inside, Drake was feeling a considerable dread, and panic as they were going down the gangplank

It was like an addiction. Just spending time being spoiled by Gladstone Gander was the drug keeping him on life support. He wasn’t looking forward to ending that connection, but he also knew what overdosing on drugs felt like, and he didn’t want this new friendship to become a dependency that he couldn’t break.

\---------

If he was nervous before, well he was basically made of jelly now. He was a gambler, and he was gambling, with his heart and his life. But he was gambling that the Goddess of Fortune had been sending him a message for weeks now, when he’d gone to the local clubs, the city hang outs, the bars, and had mentally just changed his mind when he had gone home alone. Dozens of times.

She had been gearing him up for something incredible. But he was so feeling the guilt and fear and panic now, even as he put on his most casual smiles.

Gladstone Gander absolutely did not want to take advantage of a suicidal man in need of a new life, absolutely not. No matter how wonderful, handsome and darn right _authentic_ he was. No gold digging here, no lies...he’d found a genuine person who liked him, who liked his company he was sure of it!

_Dear Goddess please let me be right, and please let me not screw this up completely! I’m not trying to rush, I really don’t want to hurt his already broken soul! I want to heal it!_

Without presumption, the moment they had stepped onto the ferry and Drake had taken a few snaps, Gladstone pointed him towards one of the many yellow cabs that would always hang around waiting for tourists.

“We’ll grab my Benz from my house, and head downtown. I live near the water, by the way. I can introduce you to the danes...you aren’t a Beagle Boy are you?”

Drake blanked and Gladstone laughed nervously.

“It was a joke. What I meant, are you afraid of dogs? You can meet my kids.”

“Oh. No, I was more stuck on the word Benz…” Drake said, getting into the cab without hesitation, and his eyes were flashing with something…

_Oh god, is he a gearhead too? Well, he must be, he drives that amazing motorcycle that looks like himself!_

“Yep, cabbie, number seven, Bayside Drive…”

“Lucky number seven,” said the driver. “Right away Mister Gander…”

“All the cabbies here know me,” Gladstone said to Drake with a chuckle.

“I can imagine…”

The trip wasn’t long, and Gladstone was highly relieved when they came up to the electronic gate at his wonderful home.

He had once lived closer to Donald, on the suburban side Duckburg, the idea of being closer to the city and the traffic hadn’t ever appealed to him. But this property on the river was just so beautiful that a year ago he snatched it up the moment he saw it was for sale. A modern two story split level townhouse with cream stonework with dark gray trim and roof, and surrounded by greenery. It was situated on a curving part of the road, which meant his view was overlooking the bay from his front and his side yard. The property was perfectly protected with a brickwork fence and an electronically controlled wrought iron sliding gate, which, when he accessed the application on his phone, opened for the cab to enter. It was the only visible sign of his security system on the property.

Everything else was a work of pure genius, in his opinion. His garage looked normal, you wouldn’t guess there were cameras in the outside lights on the garage and the house. The trees on his front lawn seemed normal, but that little birdhouse had a few hidden secrets, despite the birds actually using it. Not to mention the bird bath, the garden gnomes… Everything about this house looked normal. The security was so invisible as to be nonexistent, but it was all there. Even his Uncle had been impressed when Gladstone had shown it off to him.

The cabbie was very appreciative when Gladstone handed him a hundred dollar bill to pay for a five minute trip, not asking for change at all.

“Wow, uh…” Drake climbed out of the cab with an awestruck look.

“One of the luckiest things is to get him as a passenger,” said the cabbie to Drake, and Gladstone had a hearty laugh, not upset at all.

“Here we are, home sweet home...let's just go inside for a second so I can let the babies out to the yard,” he watched to make sure the gate was closed behind the retreating cab before he approached the door to the house. “You can use the bathroom if you need to, you haven’t used it yet all day…”

“Well…” Drake was looking nervous..

Of course he was nervous. A couple of giant Great Danes were barking excitedly from inside the house. There was no help for it, Gladstone opened the door and let them run free and mentally winced when Rainbow immediately tried to jump on him and Clover ran past him to go pointedly sniff Drake’s face.

“Well, hey there,” Drake said, with a sort of restrained panic in his voice, eyes wide and alarmed. “Aren’t you a big…boy?

“Clover, hey, come on now,” Gladstone opened the inner door and waved Drake inwards. Rainbow just snuffled at the newcomer a bit before taking an excited circular run of the entire yard. Clover ran off after to the back of the house, but she was already leagues ahead of him.

“Hurry, get inside and we’ll shut them out. Sorry, that was too much wasn’t it?”

“Just a little,” Drake said, looking startled. “I have literally never met a dog as tall as me before that couldn’t talk…”

“Sometimes I think they could start, really, if they wanted. It’s a little weird sometimes, to walk a dog taller than me,” he had mentally noted that Drake was slightly taller than him, and now he was feeling the sudden realization that he could just give Drake his old clothes, so he wouldn’t feel bad about having money spent on him.

“I had an idea Drake,” he said, thinking he’d try the idea out. “Instead of buying you all new clothes I could just give you some of my stuff to wear? I mean, I’m not going to saddle you with really old cast offs, I’m definitely not giving you anything full of holes, but I do shop for myself a lot…and it would mean more room for new things for me!”

Drake laughed.

“You really want to dress me up don’t you?” he sighed. “I don’t know…”

“If you are going to look for a job, you need clothes,” Gladstone added, and mentally checked on the calendar how long it had been since he’d last had anybody in the house to clean. Nobody would be coming today, good. “Just hang on there, I’ll grab some stuff from upstairs I know I never wear, and you can use the downstairs bathroom to change. Upstairs is off limits to guests, I’m afraid.”

As he turned, he saw the light of curiosity suddenly filling the man’s eyes.

 _Get 'em while they’re hot,_ Gladstone thought. _I know he totally wants to see what’s upstairs. Maybe one day Drake Mallard...but not today._

\--------

Drake was feeling so overwhelmed now, he was almost in a panic. This house was incredibly not what he expected a future quadrillionaire to be living in!

It was a perfectly ordinary modern townhouse thank you very much. Modest, not fancy at all, and other than its prime riverfront location, was a place that would have fit right in on his own street, Avian Way. The bird bath was a bit fancy but that was it. The gate was the only sign of serious security outside of the guard dogs, and Drake had to secretly wonder as to whether Gladstone was a little too dependent on his luck.

And then, he spotted it. Just barely, as he had been walking up to the door, before Clover had decided his face was worthy of deeper understanding. A tiny tiny little camera mounted inside the porch light. It was indistinguishable from the painted metal light fixture, except that Drake Mallard was well acquainted with such kinds of security devices in his Darkwing days. He’d had a few at the house on Avian Way. He wondered how many other hidden security cameras were on the property.

Inside was as non-fancy as the outside. The hallway was a perfectly ordinary townhouse hallway, cream walls with a dark wood side table, covered in junk envelopes and this and that, a large closet with a mirrored door, hooks on the wall for hats and jackets, which Gladstone had stuck his fedora on almost instinctively, an impressively simple stand for his umbrellas, and a separate stand for walking sticks. A mat with boots and shoes was on the floor.

Pictures were hanging on all the walls and, to Drake’s amusement, they were all mostly pictures of his dogs, from puppy to adult.

_So...Where are his family pictures?_

There was something different about this ordinary looking house. He couldn’t quite figure out what was bothering him. The modern kitchen was severely clean, overlooking an ordinary modern dining area, which overlooked the split level lower living room. An indulgent squashy long black leather sofa and a wide screen TV were the only notes of particular luxury he could see here. The carpet was creme, and all the furniture was dark wood. Not much on color schemes, which was odd for someone he had decided was very much an elegant and colorful person.

That was it. This was a house that wasn’t really lived in by its owner. It was a place to sleep, but Gladstone Gander had called himself a world traveller. How much time had he really spent in this house? Had he moved in recently? Not much in the way of personal items downstairs. He wondered if the upstairs was more of a living space, more personal, than this very neutral first floor.

He quickly remembered himself and did use the bathroom which, again, very nondescript. But he could tell, something different about this ordinary looking room as well. He was washing his hands when a knock on the door alerted him to Gladstone’s return. He opened the door and was summarily handed a huge pile of clothes.

“So many shirts, sorry Drake, I’ll see if I can find a bag for you to bring home whatever you want to keep...I don’t think half of it will fit you, but you never know.”

Drake did find a couple t-shirts and a button down that fit. He felt weird trying on the pants, they were a little short, but a bit rounder in the belly than he needed. He probably had lost a lot of weight and would probably put some back on if he did manage to get back in shape. The elastic waisted shorts were fine, and a pair of really nice khakis that were barely worn and he knew he could wear a belt with them to fit him better as he was putting back on a bit of bulk. But it was weird getting a rich man’s clothes, the shirts were some very nice hand tailored garments, probably from local shops, and only fit him now because he’d lost a bit of weight and was no longer as broad in the shoulders. He would need to start working out again.

“Not taking more than a few, seriously,” Drake said, coming out wearing his own clothes. “If they don’t fit you, drop them off at the mission, someone in need will appreciate a good office quality work shirt…”

“No problem, Drake,” Gladstone looked anxious. “Here, this backpack has seen better days, sorry, the strap is loose…”

A tattered green canvas backpack with a frayed loose flying left strap and the right was tied together where a buckle would have been. It was decorated with what Drake recognized as some Junior Woodchucks patches. He looked up at Gladstone.

“You were a Woodchuck?”

“Only for a couple years,” Gladstone admitted. “I quit, and later came to regret that decision, there’s no Woodchucks in Scotland where I lived. Nor anything like them. But that backpack was my lucky pack when I used to go camping with my cousin. I think you should have it. Pass a bit of my luck on to you.”

Drake looked him in the eye for a few moments. There was an unspoken thought, that maybe Gladstone was really wanting to give him something of meaning, more than he was trying to give him luxuries, and he decided not to argue the point, just shrugged and stuffed everything he had decided to keep into the backpack.

And then was stunned when Gladstone handed him a plastic bag...it was the rest of his stuff...his new book and the cameras he’d already used up and had handed to Gladstone to hold onto. And his water bottle.

“You almost forgot…” said the man, looking embarrassed.

“Thank you,” Drake said, mind working a thousand different ways as he tightly tied up the plastic bag and stuffed that in too. “Uh, so...where are we going now?”

“The phone store. But before you go, want to properly meet the pups? They've had a run, but I don’t want to just up and leave again without you getting a proper introduction…”

Drake laughed, and Gladstone whistled at the back screen sliding door to let them both in again. Drake was much better prepared this time for the two large dogs, who Gladstone properly introduced him to by commanding them to sit, and letting Drake give them both a cautious pet on the head.

“Now, if you ever come by to visit and I’m not here, they’ll know you’re a friend…” Gladstone said with a dramatic flourish. “Who knows? I may hire you to watch them the next time I leave town for a week. What would you think of that?”

Drake started, and Gladstone grinned, eyes crinkling in delight. Drake gave a ‘huh’ and looked at the two big dogs, who were looking at him curiously and sitting very obediently, not moving. There was an uncanny intelligence in their big brown eyes.

“I think I would be fine with that. Just fine.”


	10. We'll Always Have Duckburg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this has become a little plodding, this is a bit of a romantic bit, just relationship building. I am planning for this story to become a bit series, so you are in for a long haul, but I hope its been worth it so far.

Without a doubt, there was no experience like driving around the city of Duckburg along its beautiful riverfront drive, hugged by the plush leather interiors of the sweet piece of nostalgia that was a vintage car. From the tip of his feathered head to the bottom of his flat ducky feet, Drake Mallard was feeling an all over full bodied adrenaline rush. The top was down, the windows rolled down and wind was blowing across his beak in that penultimate way that always got his internal gears shifting higher and higher. He was beyond ecstatic sitting in the passenger side of a motorcar enthusiast’s wet dream.

“What do you think of her?” Gladstone said, as if reading his mind.

“She’s a dream,” he murmured out loud, feeling the rush of the wind in his feathers and the sheer energy of car, its solid design, it's delicious motor revving at just the right points to make every ‘danger’ related molecule in his body say, ‘oh yes, lets!’

“Maybe I’ll let you sit in the driver’s seat while I buy your phone…” Gladstone said impishly.

“Excuse me?” Drake said, wincing as the bright sun came around a corner into his eyes. “I’m not going in with you to pick it?”

“And have you ‘hum’ and ‘haw’ over the prices of everything and pick the dinkiest cheapest phone that won’t last you a month?”

“Actually, the cheaper phones usually last longer,” Drake argued, and was startled to have a pair of sunglasses handed to him. He hadn’t noticed Gladstone put on a pair himself; where did he keep them?

“Planned obsolescence,” Gladstone replied, and smoothly pulled them into the parking lot of a mini strip mall. “But I don’t plan to have you become obsolete. In a year or two when this phone breaks down, you should be so addicted to modern tech that you’ll upgrade, and also be able to afford to buy your own by then, right?”

Drake felt a sort of dizzying gluttony at the hope for his future implied in the comment. That feeling of being with someone he had known almost his entire life, despite having met him just this morning, had settled firmly into his chest and he was just going to accept this with a smile.

“I’ll wait in the car, and I am sitting in the driver’s seat…yes indeedy...”

“Great! We’ll grab your phone, go take some pics of the bin, then...then…” he seemed to be scrambling for an idea for a moment, as if looking for ways to keep Drake entertained. “I know! There’s this great little place on the bay that makes the best clam chowder. We can get some food before you get on the boat. You like clam chowder?”

“Love it,” Drake grinned, and crawled into the driver’s seat with a feeling of overwhelming ecstasy, the big wheel in front of him making him feel a bit like a toddler.

He was never a fan of large steering wheels, but in combination with this luxury of an experience, he could adapt. He was damned near itching to drive it. But he knew he was in Ratcatcher mode. He wanted to go well over the speed limit and run every red light from here to St Canard and that was a dangerous mental place for him to go.

 _I am retired,_ he mentally stated. _A civilian. I need to accept that..._

Gladstone didn’t take very long picking a phone for him. He knew exactly which phone he wanted Drake to have...but then he did something strange when he returned. He walked around to the passenger seat and climbed in next to him from there.

“I got you whatever was the latest and greatest, so you have all the newest technologies available to contact me. It's registered to a family account with mine, prepaid for this month, but you will have to take over paying for it after a month, sounds fair?”

“Yes, that does sound fair,” he was then startled by the generous duck handing him the car key along with the plastic bag with his new phone inside.

“What…?”

“Give her a spin,” he said, eyes glimmering with mirth as he secured his seatbelt. “Not many people get to try the Benz. I’ve _never_ let Donald drive it, not just to annoy him but because he had one once and he _smashed_ it. He is a terrible driver.”

“I...don’t know...I…”

“Go ahead, it's all right. You can drive us to the money bin, it's not far, just a right turn off this main highway straight into the old town, all roads lead to the bin from there. And If you’re a decent driver maybe I’ll hire you to drive me around St Canard when I visit next…”

Another offer of work from this man. Drake almost choked on his own unspoken retort that he didn’t need anymore help, and instead held up the fancy little keyring, with a gold key chain shaped like a clover with an emerald in the center of the leaves and a matching horseshoe studded in little drops of white pearls.

“No rabbit’s feet?” Drake winced as he buckled himself in, realizing the key chain probably cost as much as his new phone did, and turned on the ignition.

The car purred like a kitten.

“I’ve graduated up from that, it's not very humane is it? I like animals too much…” Gladstone shrugged, but he was giving Drake nervous glances, the glances of a driver not feeling good about having someone else in the driver’s seat. “I once adopted a black cat at one point, in defiance of their bad luck reputation. But really, I just don’t get along well with cats as pets. Friends, yes, pets, no…” he winced.

“In Asia, cats are considered extremely lucky,” Drake said, keeping his eyes on the road, and mentally calculating the route as they went. “We had a cat in our old apartment when I was a child. She kept the mice at bay anyways…if not bad luck.”

“I should go back to visit Asia sometime. I’ve been there as a tourist, usually only to the same places, Tokyo, Beijing, Singapore...”

“I plan to visit Tibet again once I have US citizenship. I’ve been trying to convince my parents to come back to America. My Dad has been devoutly stuck in the monastery and mum runs a little restaurant there in town. I don’t want to upend them, but I really fear for them sometimes…”

“I know how that feels,” Gladstone said, genuinely. “Aunt Matilda, she’s the one who adopted me, lives alone in that castle in Scotland with a couple of servants. In the middle of nowhere, and that place has been robbed so many times, well attempted robbery anyways, my Aunt and all her employees are really tough. I’m glad Donald is in Europe right now for awhile, he’ll go visit and check up on her…”

“The amount of trouble your family gets into…” Drake laughed, as they almost ironically pulled up to the money bin, and Gladstone handed him his pass to open the gate.

“This is as far as tourists are allowed, with a chaperone,” Gladstone said, once Drake was pointed to Gladstone’s designated space in the sparsely populated parking lot. “Take as many selfies as you want…”

Drake looked up at the really tall building, feeling his own mortality suddenly coming to the fore. It wasn’t as tall as the St Canard Tower, but it was wider and a perfect square, no windows, and that huge money symbol on the front was daunting. It was damnedly the ugliest, gaudiest and largest piece of architectural bling he had ever seen.

He took a big wide shot from the gate, and then obliged himself with an upshot selfie with the new phone to test it out, and then was suddenly set upon by Gladstone for a shared selfie.

It wouldn’t occur to Drake Mallard, until much later, that he had been here on the property with Scrooge McDuck in his office, blissfully unaware that Darkwing Duck was casually standing outside his front door.

\----------

Soon they were going back up along the coast again, and Gladstone let Drake stay in command of the driver’s seat, directing him to turn into a small waterfront plaza, at a restaurant called ‘The Bayside Grill’.

He really did love coming to eat at this place. It was an all white wood painted structure with blue accents, with a slightly kitschy nautical themed lobster mascot, but was still very elegant, with a large patio dining area and an open bar and grill in the back. A waitress in a sailor style uniform directed them to a chair by the bay and handed them both the menus. They were lovely things, the menus, printed over top of old design schematics of naval ships. Of course Drake had taken a few pictures of the restaurant on his camera, seeming to prefer a physical film camera to his phone. Or maybe he wanted to finish up the film roll.

_I’ll take some phone shots myself. I’m a glutton for social media...I’ll have to ask Drake permission to post pictures of him though...he might not want anyone to know about our trip..._

Still, it was rather a nice little restaurant to spend their last hour together, and he wanted to remember it for certain. Drake busied himself by putting a napkin across his legs, and let Gladstone order for them both, acting as normal as possible could be for someone who had gone from nothing one day to eating in a restaurant with menus and wine glasses the next. Gladstone remembered to order him a bottled soda and Drake’s preference was coo-coo cola.

“Drake, hey, I’ve been taking pictures all day, do you mind, maybe tomorrow, if I shared them online? My social media is friends only, but people will probably recognize you and share them with friends…you know how these things go...”

“I don’t mind,” Drake looked at his empty water glass accusingly. “But you might lose some friends.”

“Huh, probably not any friends worth keeping…” Gladstone said.

Drake shrugged, looking out towards the bay. The sun was starting its casual descent, it was almost five o’clock. Not much time left, just a couple hours to eat before catching the ferry. Gladstone looked down at his hands, and began fiddling with the rings on his fingers; he had a few of them he’d collected over the years. His school ring, a chunky high school football team ring that was not his own, and he couldn’t remember which of his cousins had handed it to him in payment for something, but it seemed like he’d worn it forever. It was probably Donald’s. A delicate silver and gold woven ring with a Celtic knot his Aunt Matilda had handed him one day and said ‘this was your Grandmother’s’, and he knew she meant it was her mother’s.

_I wonder if Donald knows I have it? Well, it's a woman’s ring, and it wouldn’t fit on him anyways...I should give his ring back though...these things are too important to hold over family..._

Mentally, he was distancing himself from the current situation, trying to backtrack. Maybe Drake was not the one for him, really, he was just rubbish with social cues, and recognizing how people really felt about him. Drake was probably way far away from any possible idea of romance, let alone with him, and he was hating himself. The last thing he wanted to do was take advantage of a vulnerable person he had just met, that morning! But he still desperately wanted to try and make some sort of connection beyond friendly overtures, something more solid, something substantial. He was good with physical romance. With roses and wine and going to movies, and going to bed...

It would have to have been a really long day if he was already thinking about the end of it. Drake deserved better than that. He was examining his rings as Drake played with his phone, when inspiration hit him.

“Hey, um, Drake, there’s something else I want you to have, but not to keep, just to borrow…”

“Borrow?” Drake raised an eyebrow, and must have been alarmed when Gladstone pulled off one of his school rings.

“My Aunt will kill me if I lose this,” he held out the ring. “This isn’t a marriage proposal by the way,” he joked, hoping Drake believed him. “It's a promise, consider it collateral, that I will also be there in thirty days to get this back from you. I know _you_ will be there, you have nothing to lose, but I am someone who tends to be selfish, very self-indulging, and I tend to forget about the people I care about,” he looked rather unhappy about this admission. “I also really do want to see you again,” he added almost too quietly.

Drake’s expression was incredulous as he examined the ring with a bit of alarm.

“Oxford?” it was not a question, the name was written on the ring crest. “My gosh, you are amazing, generous, and full of strange twists and turns...I don’t know...I guess I could handle _borrowing_ the ring...if that makes you feel better…”

“Every time you see it, remember our bet and remember me. I am rooting for you, I may lose track of time and not get in touch a lot, but that doesn’t mean I’m not your friend, I most definitely am. Another reason why it’s better for you to have the phone, you need to call me and keep me in touch. Or text. I already put my number in your phone, by the way.”

Gladstone had to suppress his startlement when Drake, in trying out the ring for its fit, actually put it on his left ring finger. That finger. The ‘I Do’ finger.

“Perfect fit,” Drake laughed, not giving any sign that he was even considering it as a romantic gesture. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Gladstone was just being too hopeful. “Oxford huh? You said your Aunt would kill you for losing this?”

“She spent her own money, not my Uncle’s, to send me to school, and it’s not a cheap school either,” Gladstone moaned at the memory of his University years. “I took law for a year, and then business at my Uncle’s urging, but didn’t get a Masters. University bored me too much to stay.”

“I took criminology at college,” Drake said. “I should go back, get my degree, and do something civilian, like security guard…Something official that makes use of all that experience in fighting crime.”

“Now you’re talking,” Gladstone grinned, mentally thinking now that no matter how much Drake was probably thinking himself retired, he never would be.

Gladstone really really hoped that Darkwing Duck would be back in action again one day. But until then, he just tipped the waitress generously, and chattered with Drake a good long while before their chowder came. And with great smugness Gladstone felt himself vindicated when Drake agreed that this clam chowder was some of the best he had ever had. He had converted a new fan in support of this place. Too often good places stuck in out of the way areas shut down because of a lack of customers who knew about them. Or like this place, looked too gimmicky. The owner really needed to beautify the outside of this place to match the menu and service. One day.

_Next time, I’ll take him to that pizza place on Turnbill road..._

He really looked forward to teaching, and learning with Drake all the wonderful places one could visit around the bay. He just got his foot in the door today, but if he wanted to really entrench Drake into living his best life, then re-infusing him with a bit of local pride was quite on the cards. And at the same time, maybe _la Diosa_ herself would smile upon them both, and bring about something deeper than friendship.

It was worth a shot. But not right now. Drake had miles to go before he could make that leap with anyone, and Gladstone resigned himself to just casual friendly conversation until the last of the chowder was done with, and they ordered dessert.

Life was beautiful. He really hoped Drake, now fingering the ring on his hand and smiling knowingly, would embrace all that life had to offer him now, including him.

\--------

Drake was feeling thoroughly happy with the meal, the company, the atmosphere and the casual conversation. If they could have gone on this way forever he would have. The fluffy puff pastry Gladstone chose for them, with raspberry and chocolate filling, was a type of heaven he didn’t know existed in food form.

And it hadn’t passed his notice how quickly he had resigned himself to wearing the ring. In high school if you were dating someone, you wore their school ring. He had seen Hamm’s ring on his girlfriend’s finger and had longed to have a ring to give to a girl at school, or anyone. He’d been the odd man out, never picked to dance with, never more than the ‘awkward kiss before never going out again’ date. A couple of girls had messed around with him in college. Morgana had been his only long term fancy.

Now he was fancying himself as something more precious to someone, and he wondered at where this sudden decision, this need to be loved again, had come from.

_I hope it wasn’t you, Fortuna, I like to make my own free decisions in love…_

But then again, he was asking the Goddess for happiness for himself and his friends, including Gladstone with his desire to be married. What did he himself need to be happy again?

A job. A home. His _daughter back_. All the Muddlefoots living next door to him again, annoying him with Pelican’s Island reruns, he would gladly welcome that again.

“Are you all right?”

Drake wasn’t sure he was. The ring was very very comfortable, despite him never having worn rings, ever, with any comfort. It was warm, the little Oxford crest seemed so unreal.

Had this day even happened?

“Everything seems so unreal now, like I’m in a dream. I’m waiting for reality to snap in on me…”

It did, but not in an unpleasant way, when the waitress came back with the bill, and leaned over and asked Drake for an autograph.

He was stunned.

“You are Hugh Duckman, right?”

Drake gritted his teeth, snapped back to reality, and sadly shook his head, and she apologized.

“Sorry, my mistake...all the girls have been oozing about this famous celebrity sitting here with Mister Gander and I thought, he must be, to be eating with Mister Gander, right?”

Drake looked over at the corner as she headed back to the kitchen with the money, where the waitresses were looking at them with gushing eyes.

“I don’t mind being mistaken for a celebrity, really I don’t, but isn’t he like, fifty now, sixty?”

Gladstone laughed, and got up from his table, Drake also rising.

“Well, I wouldn’t say you didn’t look a little like Duckman, but I think you would definitely qualify as a celebrity, anyway...oh no don’t look like that. A lot of celebrities have scandals, I have a large number of my own, I think you’ll get through this, you’ll just have to trust yourself…”

“Trust myself...to totally screw things up again…”

“Have confidence Drake…” before he knew it, they were at the parking lot and Gladstone was this time asking for his keys back in the not so subtle way of walking over to the driver’s side. “You are a great guy and have loads of future just waiting for you. When you hit the bottom...you can…?”

“Only go up from there,” Drake accepted the cue, and handed over the keys, feeling a sudden impasse between them again, as Gladstone was pointedly trying to be casual. “Gladstone…”

“Drake...you need to stand on two feet, on your own…”

Drake recognized Gladstone trying to distance himself from feeling miserably sad at the coming departure. He broke the impasse by hugging the man as he handed him his keys.

 _No, you are not going to run away...You made me your friend...no, you_ became _my friend by being one, and you are not going to back out now!_

Gladstone did eventually break the hug, eyes looking misty, whilst Drake was thoroughly on the edge of bawling. This man was the epitome of composure, complete and utter control in stressful situations, only breaking out expressively in ordinary, safe ways like gushing over his pictures of his dogs, or enthusing about the beautiful weather.

“Come on, there’s still a little time, we can walk along the pier before you get on the ferry…”

Said with a sort of distant sadness. In a ‘We’ll always have Paris’ kind of way. How long had this man so completely repressed his internal self that he was rejecting the relationship he had been cultivating all day long? Drake Mallard was not going to let him.

“Yeah,” Drake got into the passenger side of his car, and pulled out the phone again. “So I can text you with this...you have a WebBook account? Eggmail? How about Tweeter?”

Gladstone laughed, and promised to set him up with all of those once they were off the road. Drake promised himself that he would hold Gladstone to his agreement: he was going to contact that man constantly, whether he wanted it or not!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I love classic cars and motor vehicle history. Other fun fact: I cannot drive, and don't have my license and probably never will. Boo.
> 
> If you want to see the inspiration for Gladstone Gander's car, google Mercedes Benz 1951 model 220 Cabriolet B. Its a beautiful beast. >_>


	11. Healing Waters

They drove back to the bay in silence, neither one of them speaking, and Gladstone’s mind was racing with dramatic ideas, overt declarations or suggestions for elopement and travels afar, even as he was instinctively retreating from the emotional battlefields by default and fearing rejection. He parked the car, and since the ferry was still not due to board for another twenty minutes, he offered Drake his hand to go for a walk.

It was almost too natural, the hand that came to take his readily, and now the hand had the metal of a ring on it, his ring. It was quite a sign, quite a token of friendship and commitment on his own part, to lend him that ring for a month, to trust him to that important piece of his personal history. Drake had shown him the deepest respect by not ever pointing out his prayer for marriage as the reason.

Pushing back everything, pushing back all his glorious ideas about running away, he thought about what his Uncle would have done…

_Run off to the Klondike...okay maybe not him…_

What would a more _sensible_ person do? Like his Aunt Matilda? What had she always said?

_“Marriage is about respect, you can’t start out on the wrong footing. Or try to control other people. Everything should just come almost natural…as natural as breathing...”_

Her strong brogue came back to him almost audibly, her stern yet caring attention to him had brought the spoiled and withdrawn boy that Gladstone was to a severe place of love, understanding and respect. It was Matilda who had taught him to use his luck to help others, in many ways she had encouraged him to give generously of the wealth he was granted, but not in garish ways like throwing a bunch of cash at a charity case.

He remembered one example, a local shepherd whose flock had died, going over a cliff during a thunderstorm. It had happened a year or two before Gladstone had come and he’d managed to only save a couple of his sheep and couldn’t afford more, and now he had been talking about selling everything. Aunt Matilda and the townspeople had been in a great understanding with the shepherd for a long time, a great deal of trade and business had gone between them all, mutton and wool for money when they could afford it, but in trade for other services when they couldn’t afford it. Matilda let the shepherd stay over a week in the castle and the shepherd’s sheep would mow down the grass for them. A great exchange! The shepherd was well loved by all.

So Gladstone had wanted to help him.

_“We should give him a million dollars!”_

Aunt Matilda had stomped that idea down completely, telling him that no amount of wealth could bring another happiness if your intent wasn’t to bring the other person happiness by giving it. So he went with his Aunt Matilda to an animal auction in a nearby city in hopes of getting a few sheep. Boy were they in luck, someone was selling their whole flock! Gladstone’s luck also won the animals for them, and they paid it down with all his lucky finds of money on the ground that his Aunt had insisted he pile up in a room in the castle, like all McDucks seemed to do with their cash. Almost all his pile was gone after paying for the sheep. Who knew a flock of sheep was so expensive?

The shepherd did, and he was almost aghast when the whole flock descended upon him from the trucks they had arrived in. This was too generous, he had protested.

_Giving him money would not have done, he had been talking about moving away to the city to live off a relative there, an Uncle…until he could find a new job._

Now, the shepherd was still there, though he was retired, and his son tended the flocks, the Uncle had come to live with _him_ , and the town still enjoyed considerable benefit of mutton and wool. Aunt Matilda had taught Gladstone a healthy respect for Scottish cooking and the lives of small working people. Handing someone a million dollars was not how you showed respect.

But getting respect was something to be earned, and earning Drake’s trust and respect was more important to him now than all the luck on earth. Doing anything more with money would not have been very good for him at all. Drake was probably going to get that million dollars...but Gladstone was going to give him something else entirely…something that would hopefully sow continued respect in the days to come.

“So, I’ll give you a text now and again, just keep me from dropping off for ages by giving me a nudge…” he pulled out his wallet. Drake looked like he was going to refuse right off whatever he was going to hand him, until Gladstone handed him a business card. “This is a number for a civil rights lawyer in Washington, and she’s one of the best in the business, hands down, all my friends recommended her to me when my ex went all over the media blasting me and outing me...If you decide to sue the government, she will be your knight in shining furry armor. And you know she’ll bring you good luck, she’s a cat.”

Drake stared at the card, then laughed at the last comment.

“Goodness you are full of surprises…” he took the little card and stuck it into his own threadbare wallet.

“One more thing Drake,” Gladstone shrugged. “My Uncle, well he doesn’t care much for ‘Shrinks’ and most likely is in the opinion that they are all quacks. I do not. So I tell people, without reservation, to not be afraid to get professional help. Find a good counsellor and talk over your problems. And I don’t mean the bartender, I really mean a good professional, as soon as you can afford it.”

“I’ll look into it,” Drake said, his face looking red. “Thank you. Thank you so much. For everything. For all of it. I feel like I have a head start now, everything is going to begin from scratch, there’s a new lease...I hope this feeling lasts. Or that I can do justice to all the kindness and opportunity you’ve given me here.”

“Do yourself a favor,” Gladstone said, and he noticed the ferry was slowly starting to let passengers on. “Tell your friends what really happened to you. Friends will usually have your back, if they are really your friends, and will probably dramatically defend you to the death any slight against you.”

Drake smiled, looking a little distant.

“Launchpad, I should tell him at least, he has always been there for me.”

“And you should tell Fenton…” he hated bringing this up, but he knew nobody else would. Somehow he knew. “If you consider him your friend...he might not forgive you, but he deserves to know the truth of why it happened. Have you been to see him yet?”

“Yeah, once,” Drake shrugged, looking a little withdrawn. “He called me a traitor and refused to talk to me, but didn’t tell me not to come back...”

“My Uncle has been to visit him,” Gladstone shivered a little. “I haven’t, I wasn’t close to him like Scrooge was. Really, if he had shown a bit more remorse in his trial…”

“Yeah, that’s what the judge had said, he sat through that whole thing like a stone…”

“I really need to watch all those tapes...especially your trial...now that I know…”

Drake looked up at him, and his eyes were kind of misty.

“I don’t want to end this on a sour note, so here’s an idea…” Gladstone pulled out his phone. “I’ll take a picture of you standing in front of the ferry.”

“Okay,” Drake laughed and pulled out his phone. He must have been out of film now. “I’ll take one of you.”

They did take pictures, a lot of selfies, and Gladstone grabbed Drake for a tight tearful hug.

“Don’t forget to call me, text me, keep in contact with me. I’ll be texting you like mad all afternoon, I know it.”

“I won’t forget,” Drake promised. “I’ll see you in thirty days, for my million,” he grinned cheekily.

“We’ll be travelling on the ferry regardless I think,” Gladstone said, feeling it. “I think you’ve changed so much in the last twelve hours, it's like I’m seeing a whole new person.”

There were times of brevity, and times for dramatic gestures, and times for small simple ones, and he planted a kiss on the man’s cheek before letting him go and waving him up the gangplank.

His chest just hurt watching the man wave goodbye, then was treated, laughingly, to the sight of Drake running up to the second level and waving to him from the railing there. Gladstone chuckled, and felt like all the little things that had made up their day were all coming back to a single moment. This one.

He took one last picture, and was waving right until the ferry began its long journey along the Audubon Bay Bridge, then turned, and didn’t look back.

It was time for him to trust his gut. This man was going to take his life into his hands in positive ways now. He was sure of it. But he was nervous because he was no longer in the driver’s seat and who knew what next could happen? To his utter astonishment, he could feel eyelids starting to well up with the beginnings of tears. All the heart breaking work of giving this man a life again had drained him utterly, and he just sat in the front seat of his car for awhile and cried. The pain of separation, relief, and spent energy overwhelmed him, and he just wept.

Suddenly felt a ping and opened his phone. A text from Drake, already?

 **Drake** : Race you home? :)

Gladstone sat there, stunned, then cackled like a madman, and knew he was going to win this race, but was thrilled by the contact.

 **Gladdy:** Ready, set...go!

One text down. Thousands more to go before he saw him again. He could do it. Fate would find loads of reasons for him to travel to St Canard now that he had an office there. He was going to keep this man company, he hoped, for a very very long time.

\--------------

Drake watched Gladstone quietly from the second level, taking a picture of him and then laughing when the other man did the same. This was the thing people did on trips like this, take a ton of pictures to share with everyone. He waited until he could no longer see Gladstone Gander from the railing, then moved pointedly down to the first level to the gift shop.

He had no money. It was also little more than a few tables of books and nicknacks in the banquet room with a cashier, and he quietly asked if he could have a plastic bag, if that would be all right. They seemed all too happy to give him a plastic shopping bag with the tour company’s logo on it, big enough for what he needed.

Finding a private corner, he pulled everything out of the canvas backpack, and started tying off the most valuable things into the few plastic bags he had. He reluctantly put his phone in his pocket for now, but wrapped up the cameras, the book, the nicest of the t-shirts, tied the tops as tightly as he could, then wrapped everything up in the rest of the clothes, retaining only his water bottle, the phone and one last plastic bag; the tiny bag the phone had come in from the store. He had prided himself on always having reusable bags for shopping and had always hated the plastic bags in the past as a working consumer with an income. Now they were so vital...

_I really am homeless, I’m hoarding plastic and wrapping all my clothes up and tying them together like I’m afraid I’m going to lose something…_

But his heart and soul were trembling. This wasn’t the reason why the plastic bags were so vital, and he knew it. An idea had taken over him the moment Gladstone was out of site. An Idea that was foolhardy, frightening, and a little bit dangerous. Too dangerous for him in the state he was in, but he was almost on autopilot now as he finished wrapping everything up and stuffing it all back into the backpack. He quickly sent Gladstone a text challenging him to a race home, knowing he would lose it, but wanting to reach out again. He needed to try out his phone anyways, get used to it, it was a different operating system to what he was used to. The texting app was fabulous though, and he really did love to play with the amazing new camera on this thing. He then further distracted himself by taking as many photos as he could of the bridge.

Anything but indulging a single second more to ‘The Idea’, which was still forming in the back of his mind and was causing his entire world to shake and tremble, and the floorboards beneath him seemed to quiver despite the slow lazy pace of the boat.

His entire world was shifting internally and the rest of the world seemed to be shifting with it. That dark predator from this morning, the despair, the fear, the glass of water, it was all laughing at him now...mocking him and hunting him, challenging him now that he was on his own again, with nobody to hold his hand.

_Focus...just take some damn pictures Drake!_

He hadn’t ever taken in the entire bridge before, had only driven or flown over it from above, often grumbling about how much nicer it was to travel from St Canard than it was to. He didn’t know how much time he had left…

So he took his phone up to the top level, to the front of the ferry, and watched the approach with keen eyes, photographing as best as he could this wonderful masterpiece of engineering and intercity collaboration. His camera work was disturbed only by the sounds of sea birds drifting on the wind, a few camera shutters going off as people took pictures of the bridge, too close to Drake’s way of thinking. He’d seen this view many times before, but never from a boat on the sea…further up, yes, but not way over here on this side of the bay.

An anxiousness filled him. The time it took to cross the bay had been over an hour from _Los Islas de la Prosperidad_. It was a straight cut from St Canard, across the river to the inlet where the off ramp to the suburbs connected, and then onward again towards Duckburg across the rest of the bay. He had gotten off the ramp many times, but this long stretch across the bay to Duckburg he had only taken a couple times by car. Still, this bridge was not an hour drive unless you were coming from Duckburg instead of going to it, then it could take over two hours to get to St Canard, but it was a little under forty minutes by car into Duckburg. This ferry, however, was moving more slowly than a car, much more slowly, so he guessed he would be back in St Canard by nine pm. He was mentally counting the supports along the bridge, fixating on the way the beams and support cables formed a slightly different pattern on this end of the bay.

Duckburgians had their own style. Rather more fancy and less practical than St Canardians in his honest opinion. And when the two cities had designed the bridge, they had incorporated this into the construction. The Duckburg side of the bridge was orange, almost red, towards the city itself, and the color organically shifted down to the dark green and then green blue as one moved towards the St Canard side. The upper supports were a little fancier on the Duckburg side, but were taller on the St Canard side, rising in height until hitting the off ramp connection and remaining level. The transition from the Duckburg side to the St Canard end of the bay showed the transition between cities dramatically, and their differing cultures and tastes.

_I wish I could get a good pan of the entire thing..._

If he’d had a cell phone camera on the journey to Duckburg he could have done a pan. But he was really too close to the bridge now for a proper shot. His inner shutterbug was longing for his old DSLR, not for security or investigation work, but simply for the joy of having a subject like this again. Something this dramatic needed a dramatic picture. People only ever saw pictures of chunks of the bridge, the section from St Canard to the inlet, or the section going into Duckburg. He mentally made a vow that when he did have his DSLR he’d get back on this ferry, from Duckburg, and pan the whole thing, the entire transition.

_Or maybe rent a little boat…_

Where had this sudden lust for photography come from? The idea to just start planning a large scale project like this? 

_Gladstone Gander,_ he chuckled. _You did it didn’t you? You gave me something I could do for a living besides dog sitting, and you didn’t even realize it. I mean, I do love driving around, taking pictures during an investigation_.

As a final thought, he sent Gladstone another text:

 **Drake** : Now you’ve done it, I’ve become a shutterbug. I’m going to grow extra limbs and antennae any minute now.

It was delayed, but the reply that came back was priceless.

 **Gladdy** : And don’t forget, with all those extra arms how many more pictures you’ll be able to take!

But truth be told, he really did want to take a lot of pictures, and this was a really bad angle for it, just looking up at a mass of giant pylons and the underside of the bridge, he knew it wasn’t worth it.

He realized that they were very close to the inlet, and sent a smiley back to Gladstone before wrapping his phone up again in the plastic bag, then feeling his overprotective instincts for electronics kick in he opened everything up so he could drop it into the second big bag with the book and the other cameras. It took a lot of wrapping up before he was feeling satisfied. With one last look out from the forward top level he turned and made a straight beeline for the stairs down.

Down. And down to the second level. Gladstone had done him a favor and a disservice all in one go by bringing him up behind the big back wheel on the second level for much of the tour.

He had given Drake an escape route.

Nobody in their right mind but Darkwing Duck could have noticed anything so genius in the construction of this riverboat, but the original builders of this ship must have seen a need at some point to abandon ship, there were ladder holes on the back on both sides of the boat that went right down to the water that were decorative to the untrained eye, down the side where the first deck ended and the back was not accessible to anyone but the crew. The wheel shielded part of this route from the view of anyone coming from either side and from the crew itself. Drake also noted that the view from Second Level was really not the best, the view from the first was the worst by far but the bottom level was the most actively patrolled by employees and this location wasn’t visible from the third level rails unless you looked straight down. This was definitely the best escape route off the ship if you didn’t want to be seen...

He was feeling almost calm, with the backpack strap over one shoulder, hanging lazily, as if he was just going for a walk. And he was strangely detached from himself as he climbed over the railing and mounted the hand holds. He kept his eyes on the levels above him, and sure enough, nobody was looking down. Nobody was looking up from the bottom level either, the view was so bad. All views were outwards and forward, not backwards.

A finality filled him. A moment of immeasurable calm. This was the proving grounds. The forge of Heaven. The theoretical ‘leap of faith’ he thought had been his first leap from the St Canard towers. Surviving his first crash with Launchpad. Going up against Negaduck with the Justice Ducks for the first time. All of that was nothing compared to this two foot jump into the churning waters of the bay. The wheel was mostly ornamental, the engines underneath were what would kill him if the undertow caught him and he couldn’t break free. He was very severely out of shape.

 _Ironic…_ he looked up at the bridge, counting still, ever counting the towers, and there was nobody watching. _Well, here goes nothing Drake. All these months of fear, pain, anger, and now, joy, energy and hope, all come down to this moment of judgment._

Would this be his spiritual rebirth or his final resting place?

One last look showed that nobody was watching, the city was approaching fast and with one last deep breath, eyes closed, he released his grip and just let the universe and _La Diosa Fortuna_ decide his fate.

\-----

Gladstone Gander found his way home was sad, almost final, and he had way too much energy for finality. He was itchy. Antsy. It was not fair that he was here, in his fancy car, pulling into the drive of his lovely home, knowing Drake was probably going to sleep under a store eaves somewhere that night, or on a park bench.

He really hoped he was still living in his tower as he said he had been, that he went home and wasn’t wandering the streets that night.

Feeling like he didn’t want to just stick around at home for long periods moaning, he grabbed the pups, and their leashes, and took them by car to their favorite dog park on the other side of Duckburg, which was still a reasonably good place for a long stroll with the kids. This dog park doubled as a river trail, and he parked near the entrance, putting up the top and windows in case of thieves, feeling like Duckburg was one of the safest places to have a vintage car and not caring about the time.

An evening walk with dogs was a very pleasant way to relax. His mind was racing a little and he needed calm. He was just sort of waiting for Drake’s next text, not wanting to ghost the man or constantly bother him, especially if he hadn’t gotten home yet. He wanted to just give the man his own time and space…

Nightfall and its starlit embrace signalled the nine o’clock hour. The ferry would be back by now. He opened his phone, No new messages. He sighed, and pointedly decided to turn his big danes back towards the parking lot. Suddenly...their ears perked up, a severity and stillness overtook them both and he saw that they were both looking out across the bay, completely at attention.

Gladstone hadn’t told Drake Mallard that he had paid to have these danes trained to not only protect him, but to detect potential threats to his life from even a few miles away, like little geiger counters of trouble. Across the still waters of Audubon Bay Gladstone noted a sudden shock of a bright flash of light. Was it lightning? Hard to tell from this distance. But there was something about the electrical flashes that were eerily steady, evenly spaced...and his dogs were on high alert. It almost seemed as if the lightning...was striking upwards not downwards. And quietly, with no thunder, which even he would have heard from here...no clouds were in the skies...

Feeling stressed enough, and worry for Drake overwhelming everything else, he pulled out his phone.

The lightning was definitely, most certainly, striking up.

\-----

Darkness. A moment of calm quiet as his brain caught up with his body. The drowning embrace of liquid, the feeling of every physical sense rushing to calculate odds of survival. He wouldn’t drown for a while yet, his lungs were perfectly capable of holding their breath for long periods of time, a lifetime of training could not simply be forgotten. No fear took him now. No nightmares or shadows plagued him. The water had embraced him and it had decided...water is life.

The pull on his legs from the ferry was a sudden awakening contrast to his inner calm and he thrashed for a moment, fighting for survival and climbing finally with duck like skill through the rushing water until his beak broke the surface and his eyes were level with the sea. The rolling wheel of the ferry was tooling away from him quickly and the back of the ferry was empty of people, his exit had gone completely unnoticed.

Calmness overtook him. Silence. His legs were automatically treading water, by instinct, paddling as a duck paddled, arms moving back and forth until finally he felt quite certain that he wasn’t going to get pulled under again, thank you very much, and he was going to live again, thank _you_ very much sir!

And then pure euphoria fell over him as he rolled backwards into a float, kicking his webbed feet and rolling his arms into a backstroke, laughing, crying, worshiping the water, making love to it with his hands and feet, letting the backpack float freely as it would, buoyed by the plastic air filled bags inside, that didn’t leak, thank goodness, and were keeping the pack afloat. He moved around it in circles, just free of all constraints and rekindling an old joy thought entirely lost.

It wasn’t that deep here, in fact, but he knew a tiny drop of water would ruin both his phone and his film. He was not going to lose his backpack due to negligence, and decided to waste no more time whilst water was potentially leaking into places it shouldn’t, grabbing it by the strap and beginning the long swim to the pylon support.

It was not a long journey climbing up the metal bolts of the pylon, not for him. But he was a bit out of shape still, so he stopped when he reached the bridge deck support beam itself, and rested for a moment as the traffic rushed towards the city above him. Water was dripping from his foot onto the metal support and trailing down his other leg to the sea. Leaning against the pylon and looking out over the shore, a sense of wonder rekindled in him. His fear of drowning had been painfully marked by his choice of drowning death that morning, as an irony to his duck life. Now the irony was that drowning was the last way he wanted to die, water was his everything now. He was feeling more like a duck now than he had in almost a year, more like a living person than he ever had, and freer maybe than he had ever been in his life before.

He knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Nobody could predict a PTSD attack, he had been playing with fire this time, the next time he might not make it, so going for random swims like this was totally out of the cards.

But he really did have nothing to lose, and therefore there were no barriers now for his future. He had nearly lost it all, and he didn’t consider deportation a loss, visiting his parents would always be a win to his way of thinking. But now he had to think about what his future would be.

 _Pictures...walking dogs…_ he continued climbing up the side of the bridge up to the tower, but it was no longer Darkwing Duck’s tower, and again he sighed, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. _A civilian life...you wouldn't guess to look at this place that I was anything more or less than a homeless squatter._

Gone was the Ratcatcher. Gone was the Thunderquack. Gone was the obstacle course breakfast nook, the giant map, the computer systems, the security lasers and the cameras. Gone was the elevator in and out. His tower had been completely dismantled by Launchpad, and S.H.U.S.H., at his request, and he was now taking residence in a different part of the bridge. And moving from tower to tower to keep MacArthur’s spies on their toes. He had little more than a cot, the orange crate he used as a table and now, a soaking wet pack full of treasures.

He hung out all his clothes to dry on some clothes hangers he had fished out of a bin somewhere, hooking them onto the bolts of the bridge tower, near where his old Darkwing Duck costume was hanging, a bit of an accusation that he did have a change of clothes, just not clothing he was planning to ever wear again. He took his clothes off completely, and pulled on the dry shirt he had kept safe in one of his plastic bags. Pants had always been optional with ducks, so he enjoyed his slackless rebellion for awhile, since he was going to sleep soon anyway.

He piled up his collection of things from the day; his phone, the two film cameras, the book, which he swore to himself he would read, the business card, receipts from the bags, showing him, _yikes,_ just how much the phone had in fact cost! The reboarding pass with the cruise logo and dated to expire at midnight tonight, which he decided he would keep as a reminder of the journey he had taken. The water bottle was mostly empty.

Drake sighed _again_ , fully conscious of the fact, took the bottle, and wandered over to the broken pipe in the wall, wondering if this water was in any way shape or form safe, wondering why there were water pipes up to these towers to begin with, and finally not caring as he filled the bottle anyways. He had just been drinking the bay water moments ago, which was notoriously polluted. This was nothing to complain about.

With a final dramatic, ironic sigh he climbed up onto the side of the tower and looked out over the sparkling city, feeling his contentment coming over him in leaps and bounds. This day had been a gloriously painful and amazing trip, he had made an incredible friend, and he couldn’t wait for the next time they would be together. He looked at the ring on his finger and smiled.

_You can lie to yourself, Gladstone Gander, but Darkwing Duck sees right through you. This was a marriage proposal, you really are that lonely for company. We’ll just have to wait and see what Fortune decides won’t we?_

Gladstone Gander was going to be somebody’s lucky catch, that was for sure. But Drake sighed and looked out over the city, wondering if he was really second guessing himself. He was still too broken for love and romance. An appointment with a therapist was sorely needed.

Drake was about to go inside again for the night when he saw it. A flash in the city. Like lightning. Another. The darkness of the night was suddenly being lit up, striking him in pale contrast to the darkness of the tower. And another.

Light and energy was glowing and humming from somewhere deep within the city’s bowels and his stomach sank down deep into the pits of despair, misery filled him and he looked down at the water bottle again in sorrow.

_Oh god no...please..._

A sudden buzz, and he opened his phone and checked his text messages.

 **Gladdy:** I just saw lightning on your end and I know you’re homeless right now. Are you somewhere safe?

_Oh god no._

Safe. It was almost an accusation. The word felt every bit as cowardly, as the message he sent afterwards..

 **Drake:** Yes, I’m safe now. But it isn’t lightning…

 **Gladdy:** What is it?

Drake looked out over the city, and to his utter horror, he could see the lights at the city’s edge were slowly going out. Stop lights had begun flashing red, and then were suddenly blackened. Below him on the bridge the traffic had stopped, the beeping of cars had increased in volume and people were getting out of their cars with their phones, taking pictures, recording. Over at the t.v. station the insectoid shape of Lockjaw’s eye on the sky helicopter was rising above the city.

_Oh god..._

The electrical flashes were coming from the KXDC radio tower, from behind the St Canard General hospital…

_Sweet mercy!_

And the darkness was spreading more perilously closer to the hospital with every passing second as he stood there, watching, helplessness and panic taking over.

With a feeling of utter dread and foreboding, Drake Mallard turned and stumbled frantically back into the tower again, back into the darkness.

\-------

Launchpad McQuack felt his feet were made of fire as he pounded the pavement. Sirens were wailing, city police had blocked off the streets around the building he was headed to, large squads with riot gear were assembling on the square. The Justice Ducks had been texted, but to his utter astonishment no replies were given.

_Where are they? Did they go to Cape Suzette to investigate that stolen crate? What about the backup? They always leave at least one person behind!_

It might have been him this time. He had to admit, he hadn’t been paying attention lately to their schedule changes. And if the city’s defenders were gone, it really was up to Launchpad McQuack. He pulled on his rubber gloves, checked his rubber boots for holes, and made the city police barricade just in time to see Lockjaw’s chopper come screaming overhead towards the hospital. All around him, lights were going out. He could feel the power grid collapsing, like a set of dominoes. It was shocking how dark the city was going, and yet how bright the electrical glow of static around the radio tower was building, to blinding levels of light.

He was mentally wondering how he was going to do this, handle this complete and utter loose wire situation all by himself when he noticed people rushing out of the area passing him had stopped, and were pointing up behind him.

“Look! Up there!”

“Do you see that!”

“Is that who I think it is?”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Up on the _tower_!!”

Launchpad whirled, staring into the darkness, eyes rolling up to the stars, where a shape was moving up the side of the St Canard Tower, climbing from window to window and finally coming up to the very pinnacle, hanging lazily from the spire for a moment before finally standing tall in an obvious survey stance, looking over the whole city from above. The figure pulled out a light and held it over his head flashing out a signal.

 _Their_ signal.

“YES!!!” Launchpad jumped three hundred and sixty degrees. “FINALLY!” he pulled out his phone, hoping the flashing pre-programed signal was still visible in all the glow from behind him. “I’m going to smack him but thank God! It's about damned time!”

Someone nearby laughed and Launchpad saw to his absolute joy and sheer relief, Darkwing Duck jumping from the St Canard towers and launching his grappling hook.

He was back! And now they were going to kick ass once again!

\--------

It was the rushing wind. It was a fire in his blood. It was the burning of hot white light in his eyes, and the vertigo of the free fall from the tower. The report from his gas gun, the grapple shooting out, the hook catching, the sudden jerk and pull, and then the release, still free wheeling, pulling his hook back in to shoot again and thus pulling forward again. It was the closest thing to flying any talking duck had known in millenia and it was all his. His city, roaring under his feet, the sirens screaming, the buildings he was passing going dark, the lights still going out slowly as energy was pulled, and pulled, and still pulled like blood being pulled from a vein.

He had launched himself in the direction of the returned signal, he’d barely caught it amidst the backglow, now he was reaching, one hand free, to grasp the hand of his best friend, his comrade, his sidekick.

“Launchpad!” Darkwing shouted, eyes focused on the task ahead of him, grappling them both onto a roof. “Situation?”

“Justice Ducks are AWOL and I haven’t been able to reach any of them…”

“Just us then…” Darkwing felt his chest heaving as they mounted the hospital roof, the lights of the building finally going dark, and all energy of the city had now been pulled into one conduit…into one place.

The rooftop electrical generator of the KXDC radio station was a glowing white hot sun when they arrived. Police on the ground below were being blasted by stray bolts of electricity, and a cackling laugh, high over the air, was finally reaching his ears.

“I can feel it...I CAN FEEL IT…! ITS UNENDING!!”

“He’s gone mad!” Launchpad said, as Darkwing prepared his grapple.

“You take out the generator, I’ll deal with _him_ …Lets...get... _dangerous_ …”

With a rush forward and a cry of delight from Launchpad the two heroes leapt from the hospital roof onto the radio tower towards the maniacally laughing, glowing electrical lightning rod that was Elmo Sputterspark.

“Megavolt!” Darkwing screamed, not bothering with smoke or theatrics, he was too tired. “Surrender now you sparking charlata...ack!”

Megavolt had sent out his electric cord from his side reel to grab Darkwing, whose reflexes were really out of sync, and he felt himself being launched, through the air, to land on the radio tower roof with a smack, and the sound of something cracking, along with his pride.

_Okay...something is broken...later...deal with it later!_

He decided to counter electrical wire with wire of his own, his grapple, which he used to grab Megavolt and pull them together, face to face.

“Stop this madness now Megavolt!”

“So you’ve finally come out of hiding eh Darkwing? Well don’t worry, you’ll be doing plenty of hiding, when you’re six feet under!”

Megavolt’s energy was coming in through a reverse flow, so energy was going into his system, but not coming out...and he rectified this by giving Darkwing a painful jolting shock through the grapple line. Darkwing’s rejoinder was a punch to the rat’s snout.

Somewhere behind him, he heard the sound of Launchpad ineffectively smashing at the generator with a wrench. This action would ultimately prove to be Megavolt’s undoing, as he took advantage of this distraction to disarm Darkwing’s gas gun hand, and send another reign of electric bolts at him from his gloved hands.

Darkwing dodged, rolling, coming back up to a half stand, with Launchpad and the generator behind him, Megavolt in front of him, and the radio tower antenna behind Megavolt. The antenna was sparkling with electrical energy, and Drake had a momentary smile at the irony before he pulled out the one secret weapon Megavolt probably hadn’t expected him to have.

A bottle of water. He wrenched the cap off and rushed forward, splashing the villain, who now, no longer properly grounded, was screaming in terror and agony as all the city’s energy came coursing through his body at once unregulated. With a final moment of clarity Darkwing felled the villain with one patented triple webfoot kick to the chest.

Megavolt collided with the radio tower. Energy sparked from him, to the tower, and then leapt over to the now damaged generator. The generator overloaded, the energy backfired to the tower, and back into Megavolt, who screamed again, with an unearthly terror that would haunt Darkwing’s dreams for many nights to come, and then the villain fell smoking to the ground, fried like an egg.

Darkwing took his hat off and put it to his chest, momentarily feeling the enormity of what had happened filling him, then he turned, and saw Launchpad running at him only for a few seconds before he grabbed him and they fell to the ground. The generator exploded in a symphony of fire and light, the electrical power for the station shut down and burning shrapnel rained fire down on them from above.

Silence followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with the story starting with this scene first, the dramatic confrontation between Darkwing and Megavolt after Darkwing comes out of retirement. I was listening to Pines of Rome, the Fantasia version, when I came up with it, and I totally recommend everyone listen to this track to really get the feel for this scene, and the energy I was trying to convey here.


	12. Mercy and Vengeance

“Launchpad…”

He coughed, chest aching, body hurting, feet burning, and opened his eyes. The stars overhead were clouded by smoke and blurred by his tears, his happy, horrified, frightened, hopeful and angry tears. His wiped his face on his sleeve, and left his face there for a moment as he took in his breath.

“Darkwing,” the voice was so happy, so relieved, ever so grateful.

“Owie,” Darkwing had tried to sit up. He had broken a rib when Megavolt had thrown him. And his feet! “Burns...painful...burns!”

“Darkwing!” Launchpad immediately launched into lecture mode. “No rubber gloves! No rubber boots! What do you have a death wish or something? What is the first rule when dealing with Megavolt huh? Always…?”

“...Wear Rubber...” Darkwing finished with him, and they both shared a chuckling laugh at the hidden joke in that Megavolt rule. “Oh my God Launchpad…” he grabbed his sidekick and hugged him. “I was so not ready for this!”

“It’s all right, first rule of dealing with any bad guy,” Launchpad opened up the overstuffed pocket of his jodhpurs. “Always bring a med kit,” he pulled out a squashed red packet with a white cross on it. “I think there’s some burn cream in a little tube somewhere in here…”

“I am so happy we made all those rules and drilled them into everyone, because I really dropped the ball here,” Darkwing winced. “Elmo! If you’re still alive I’m going to kill you! I’m supposed to be retired, dammit!”

He hurt. Damn did he hurt.

“Uh, DW, I don’t think Megavolt is…”

Suddenly the air was pierced by a shrill, shrieking and horrified screaming that was so unearthly that Darkwing had to wonder if the hounds of hell themselves hadn’t come up out of the ground to confront them.

“Would you quit your screaming!” Megavolt screamed, voice rising in hysteria. “And would everyone else just shut up! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

“Oh my god, it lives,” Darkwing breathed.

Launchpad’s face was utterly horrified. Ignoring his burns Darkwing got up and, wincing at every step, walked over to the still smoking villain and looked down at him.

Megavolt was a very very ugly and pathetic site, completely charred, eyes wide and glistening with tears, mouth agape in an unending speal of shrieks and pleas, hands and legs were up in the air twitching.

This was about the worst Darkwing had ever seen this man, and he felt more guilt than he had ever felt about a successful mission in his entire life. He hadn’t really considered how much energy was being transmitted through the radio tower to the supervillain.

“So, even you have your limits,” Darkwing tried to grab the twitching hands. “Stop struggling, we’ll help you.”

“Will you stop screaming!”

Launchpad had fallen in line and was now trying to remove the melted rubber boots as quickly as possible, pulling out his little metal pocket knife and cutting them off in places. The sooner this was done the better, they had gotten way too much experience and first aid training over the years. Darkwing wondered if he should take courses in school for this.

“Your addiction to raw power almost got you killed, Megavolt,” Darkwing said, feeling his frustration and anger taking over the guilt as they tried to put the man back together while waiting for the ambulance and police. “You nearly got a lot of innocent people killed. You might _have_ gotten people killed. All for that electric high! That buzz! What were you thinking?”

“Imagine,” Megavolt said, eyes momentarily clear. “All life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light!”

“Uh, full protonic reversal?” Launchpad said.

“No!!! Infinite sound! Complete and utter connection to every radio and satellite signal on the entire planet simultaneously!” Megavolt said. “Imagine how much money I’d make with a radio station that can hear EVERYTHING! I could buy and liberate every light bulb on the entire planet!!!”

“I can imagine,” Darkwing said, and looked over at the ruined generator and back up at the fried radio tower. “But you were only a short month away from being done with probation, and now you are going back to jail, do not pass go, do not collect a single dime…”

“How can you talk about anything but the infinite possibilities I’m describing? And will everyone else just shut UP???”

“Elmo, nobody else is here,” Drake huffed, and got back to bandaging up the hysterical and obviously hallucinating electrical rat, feeling infinitely less guilty than he had before. “And get some professional help for your addiction for Christ’s sake!!” 

\-------

It was with infinite boredom and complete and utter disbelief that Reginald Bushroot, mutant-plant-duck and pollen allergy sufferer’s worst nightmare come true, subjected himself to Tom Lockjaw’s delayed time report on the blackout of the city, wishing, in every chloroplast in his body, that the blackout could have reached this dump.

Not so much. The main social area on what the guards called ‘the floor’ was a riot with loud talking and laughing convicts, all of them joking, throwing their tray lunch mystery goop at each other with spoons, and being completely ignored by the bored and disinterested guards. As long as they didn’t get out, none of the guards cared what they did. None. Only the warden did, and he rarely ever showed his face.

The roaring noise was stifling.

Bushroot turned to look at Quackerjack, who had modified a second prison uniform into a jester hat over the course of the months that he had been here, looking infinitely just as bored as his companion, with half his large jaw on the table and his arms slung to his sides.

Bored. Bored bored bored. Bushroot turned up the volume on the news, hoping to defeat the rest of the room, and failing. Naturally, he was the only person in the entire place allowed to touch the main area’s t.v. remote, when the Boss wasn’t around. Anybody who touched the remote or Bushroot would have to deal with an angry plant-duck supervillain, Quackerjack and potentially their Boss...Negaduck.

_Anyone touching my remote right now will have a few well placed tentacles shoved right up their..._

The horrifyingly beautiful triumph of Megavolt’s brief rise of terror was pathetically marred by the sudden booing and hissing of every convict on the floor as a masked figure in purple and his simple minded sidekick swung into the camera lens to save the day.

 _What an idiot._ Bushroot shook his head.

“Oh Sparky is going to be such a _bitch_ when he gets here!” he muted the tv and threw down the remote in disgust.

“Oh my gawd,” was all the Quackerjack could get out, and he started to lightly bang his face on his table. “Who gave _him_ permission to come out of retirement?”

Bushroot turned his head at the sudden, unexpected sound of a platter landing violently onto the table nearest him, followed by a clatter of plastic cutlery. The table nearest was Negaduck’s table. Negaduck had carved his name into it. As well as a dire threat of death to anyone who tried to sit at his table, even Bushroot and Quackerjack. And Negaduck was still in solitary confinement.

Every molecule of his body celebrated as he watched Fenton Crackshell, looking infinitely annoyed and tense, slump into the seat with an angry and almost resigned posture. His attitude was complete and utter annoyance and disdain for the entire room and the other prisoners, a couple of which were doing summersaults now in the empty aisle.

Bushroot perked and looked up at the tv. The screen said, ‘Exclusive interview with Darkwing, coming up…’

“Oh,” Bushroot said, feeling like Christmas had come early, and Quackerjack barely moved his eyes. “Oh this is going to be sooo goood…”

He grabbed the remote again and unmuted, then dialled the volume up full blast. Quackerjack looked up as Bushroot cupped his hands to his face.

“QUIET!!!!”

“Everyone be QUIET!!” Quackerjack shouted, deciding to follow his lead. As soon as silence descended, he added, rather petulantly. “Bushroot wants to hear the news!”

Everyone turned to look up at the tv in curiosity, including Crackshell, who now looked even more annoyed, if that were even possible.

“This is Tom Lockjaw,” said the man, sounding infinitely out of breath as if he had just been running a mile. Though the report was recorded earlier, it had been recorded live, and the entire building he was on top of was dark and yet lit up by little areas of burning debris. “I’m on top of the KXDC radio station, a scene of complete devastation where the arch villain Megavolt has just been trounced, beaten, pummelled, utterly and totally defeated by that dynamic duo, that back in action, _thank god my career is saved_ , pairing of Launchpad McQuack and the man in the mask himself, Darkwing Duck!”

“Oh his career needed more than a Darkwing Duck return to save it,” Bushroot whispered, not wanting his voice to carry. “Arrogant son of a...”

“We’re here where...it looks like Darkwing Duck, mercifully is performing first aid on the defeated villain, how generous!”

Bushroot jumped his eyes briefly over to Quackerjack, whose expression was one not of pained disgust, but of actual serious concern for their comrade. Megavolt was nothing but a charred pile of twitching dark matter on the ground. Lockjaw was censoring nothing.

“Darkwing Duck, your secret identity is known, every super villain and crook in the entire state of Calisota wants to kill you. Isn’t coming out of retirement now a little bit...dangerous?”

“Oh that is such a leading question!” said Quackerjack, and everyone started booing.

“Quiet!” This came from Crackshell, whose expression was so severe that Bushroot perked up again.

He’d almost forgotten why he’d turned up the volume. Almost.

Darkwing, looking rather burnt himself, rose to meet the microphone being shoved into his face, his face was dark, his expression was one of pure nightmare fuel for every villain that ever feared him. Mostly them.

“Tom…” there was a pause. “I am dangerous.”

Uh...whuh? That wasn’t his catchphrase.

“The kid gloves are coming off!” he held up Megavolt’s melted rubber gloves and then tossed them away. “I’m not playing games anymore, not while these egomaniacal selfish power hungry maniacs are _fumbling_ around with more than they can handle at the cost of innocent life.”

_*Snap*_

A plastic spoon nearby just lost its will to live and Bushroot glanced over.

Crackshell was trembling, teeth gritted, eyes ablaze, still clutching the plastic handle of the now useless utensil.

“I’m here to protect this city, and I’m not afraid to die for that cause! They want to get dangerous? Then by all means, let's get _dangerous_ ,” he looked at the camera. “I’m ready, come for me. I’m kicking ass and taking names, and I’m not messing around,” he put his fingers up in a V as he turned to end the interview. “Darkwing Duck, flapping out of here…”

Tom Lockjaw was so infinitely happy, tears were pouring down his face.

“Wow! He’s back, he’s badder, gutsier, what determination and grit! This is Tom Lockjaw, reporting live, where Darkwing Duck is back in action and challenging the criminals of the city to take him on! I’ve never been so happy in all my life!!”

The whole room started cat calling at last, and Bushroot didn’t silence them, just turned his eyes, his head, his whole attention to the spoon snapping nervous bundle of angry energy that was Fenton Crackshell.

It was only a look, a look from Bushroot, a well placed smile, and all the frustration and anger welled over into one infinite and glorious explosion.

“AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”

Crashell screamed, a horrible scream of every hate filled molecule every villain in this place had ever screamed in response to Darkwing Duck. He screamed as if he were confronting the horror of a Lovecraftian nightmare. He screamed as if he were on fire. He picked up his metal food tray, jumped onto the table and threw it with perfect accuracy at the tv screen, still screaming.

“Yes!!” Bushroot threw up his hands. “Yes yes YES!” he cackled, and stomped his roots, then gasped when Crackshell jumped across their table to start to climb the mesh protective grill over the tv screen and bang against it, still screaming.

“Get him down from there!” a voice cried.

Oooh the warden was finally here. Bushroot cackled and snorted and pounded on the table top as the muscled guards amassed upon the howling superhero to drag him down, the leader pulling out his taser. Everyone in the room collectively winced at the zap that finally felled the screamer, everyone, but Bushroot, who was still giggling and clapping his happy green hands.

“Oh you are such a _sadist,_ ” Quackerjack said, smiling in astonished delight.

“Oh, you _love_ it,” Bushroot rejoined, leaning impishly forward to rest his cheek on his leafy palm.

Quackerjack joined in the laughter, the two of them sharing a moment of absolute freedom to be as loud as they could as Crackshell was dragged out of the room, screaming.

\----------

A feeling of flying and he was thrown unceremoniously onto the ground, still gasping.

“Cool off in there boy! Ten days!” screamed Warden Chalmers, and turned to screaming down the halls himself, kicking cell doors as he went. “I don’t need this sort of bull shit happening in my prison God dammit all!”

Fenton screamed and kicked back at the now closed metal door, then went on a rampage, kicking all four stone walls of the cell and swearing and then finally falling onto his tail in one corner in an exhausted heap bawling.

_Fumbling? FUMBLING!! How could you? Dammit! How could you come back like that? You were supposed to be miserable too!_

Spent. He was utterly spent. And his fall from grace now felt complete, totally and utterly at its lowest, as far down as he could fall.

If Darkwing Duck had come out of the whole treacherous mess still a hero, then the universe was run by cosmic jokers, laughing and mocking him and making his life a hell for their own enjoyment.

Tears of frustration and humiliation welled over his eyelids and he gasped, and took in several breaths and sat up.

Empty. He felt so empty now. The place where he had once been hopeful for his future, and for justice to finally once and for all show her smiling face on him, was now empty.

There was no justice in this city anymore. As long as Darkwing had been suffering as much as he had been suffering, this meant something. As long as the news had reported Darkwing as a homeless squatter, a street bum, he could continue to endure this place. But now…?

Now all he wanted was _revenge_.

Falling from heaven hurt. It hurt like all the stories of angels with broken wings and tattered feathers and bent and splintered bones he had ever read in paperback novels and seen on late night supernatural television programs.

Nothing was real anymore, nothing but this pain and his need to destroy his former friend in every possible way. Betrayal was one thing, but triumphing from someone else’s tragedy was another entirely. He wanted Darkwing Duck to hurt and feel humiliation the way he had felt, every day since coming here.

_“You see this boys?” Negaduck was standing over him, as he was being held down by two random criminals. Negaduck was holding up a toothbrush over his head, and the handle was sharpened down into a very dangerous looking pike. “This is what we do to stool pigeons in this place!”_

He wanted Darkwing Duck to feel the pain of a shanking, to lie in agony for multiple nights in the prison hospital fighting a septic infection. He wanted Darkwing to be pissed on, and worse, by large criminals and shoved into the walls and to fall into bed every night, crying himself to sleep.

The way he had, before he had finally figured out a way to survive in this place. But his survival skills were limited by whichever guards were around and by how long he could dodge the worst people in this place before another one gutted him. It had taken a long time for news to spread around the guards about what Fenton...could do to help them. He didn’t want to abuse this resource. Maybe though, if he could get a few more guards on his side...the Gizmoduck reputation had certainly helped with them at the start…

_But Fenton Crackshell is infinitely more useful to working men with a salary..._

Fenton slowly, but painfully sat up and stared out into the cell, assessing his taser burn with searching fingers. Not too bad. It was a little too dark in here, this cell was in the old part of the prison, which didn’t have modern lighting or much more than a toilet and a leaking sink in one corner, and some iron bars over the window. Getting up he went over to the cot and sat on it, and looked up at the ceiling.

At least he didn’t have to dodge the villains in solitary. He’d asked to have no roommates in his own cell, and for a while, they had agreed. Now he was rooming with Quackerjack of all people, and not having to room with that cackling madman who talked to his hand, just for a little while, was infinitely nice. A calmness spread over him, a detachment, and a longing, a hunger he hadn’t realized he could feel. A type of hunger he had only ever witnessed in villains.

Revenge was maddeningly sweet in its promise and he couldn’t wait to savor its flavor.

This deep and burning desire was at war with the emptiness he had felt and the moral life he had been the champion of for so long. Yet, he let it fill him, the need for vengeance, and he smiled, and felt a sort of happiness, not the positive kind of happiness, but ironic, calculating, planning, his mind working infinite possibilities as he started crying again…

“When I get out of here, Darkwing Duck, I promise you, I also will not be playing games,” he felt an adrenaline rush of the infinite possibilities that only the joy of planning revenge could bring. “Except with your life.”

He then curled up on the cot and laughed through his tears, for the first time in months.

\-------

“So we’re getting Megavolt soon, we’ll almost have the whole set…”

“I’d like them to put out action figures myself,” came the reply with a responding laugh.

In a nearby cell, well within hearing range of the gossiping guards, a villain started to chuckle. And chuckle, and cackle and laugh and roar his head off in utter howling delight at the information that he had overheard. 

_Finally...finally we can get out of this place. What the hell took you so long, Sparky? Now all I need is something the warden won’t expect. Something...or someone else they won’t be keeping an eye on...something like…_

The sound of the newest prisoner to the solitary wing, crying his heart out in his cell, came back to him, and he grinned, and had to stifle the madness from within into bringing out another laugh. The guards only tolerated so much of his villainous laughter. Now, he was listening, and cautiously planning, even whilst thanking every dark shadow and evil devil he had prayed to through all his misbegotten youth.

For Negaduck there were usually only two uses for a superhero. Target practice...or entertainment.

But maybe this time...this time...the target would become the weapon. It was time for him to start behaving himself, and be the good little obedient prisoner that the warden loved to see, and hopefully his newest weapon would do his work for him.

Nobody would see it coming. Not for a thousand miles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to split this up into a series, but I think I prefer to keep this all in one place. I don't know how long its going to be, but I do know where its going, no worries.
> 
> And thus, enter, the villains. Mwahaha.


	13. Memories Released

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapters, you guys are spoiled! :D I love you all!

St Canard General Hospital was an old building. It had existed for a very long time, a squat rectangular structure with a huge red H on its roof, that had simply been built onto over the years as technology had advanced and more space had been needed. The hospital had existed at a time long before cell phones. Before even plastic. The high plaster walls were painted a calming sea blue-green, reminding Drake Mallard of the color of Gladstone Gander’s eyes. He wondered if this calm color was unique to places and people who were naturally of the healer bent.

This burn unit was equipped with two beds, Drake was the only patient staying in this room right now though, and there were wooden chairs for guests, the normal storage areas and a single shared bathroom. It was nice. The windows in the burn unit were of the old grid style, which opened dangerously out onto the street, giving Launchpad, who was lounging on the window sill casually with one foot over the edge, a spectacular view.

“So, are you Darkwing again?” he asked plainly. “No more retirement talk anymore?”

In his padded bed, with his ribs set in a modern support style flexible band, and his burned feet and hands now covered in wrapping, Drake was feeling jealous of his sidekick. The doctor had given Launchpad an all clear, but had promised Drake he’d be back later to check on him and decide if he felt the man needed to stay overnight or not.

“No more retiring, not until I need denture cream and a cane,” he stretched a little, then regretted it. “But I am so not ready for this, it’s painfully obvious.”

“You should have worn rubber,” Launchpad teased, then jumped down from the window and closed it before a nurse could come in and object. “Really, though you could have died!”

“I almost did,” Drake said, and turned to look at Launchpad seriously. “Yesterday I tried to commit suicide,” he revealed, no longer willing to keep secrets from this man he had been hiding his pain from for months. “A stranger stepped in and saved my life,” he tried sitting up again, and this time Launchpad was at his side helping him, looking stunned.

Very quickly, Drake relayed a very truncated version of his day on the ferry, and Launchpad laughed.

“Is that man ever full of surprises. You know I’ve never crashed my plane while he was a passenger? It may have been his luck that did it…but he always said I was the safest pilot in the world to travel with and he always felt good travelling with me. Made me feel good...”

“I thought you didn’t like him?”

“Well,” Launchpad was suddenly looking a little sheepish. “I just...don’t know him like I know Donald,” Launchpad rubbed the back of his head guiltily. “And the boys…”

“Well, I really don’t know how I ever lived without him, but now that I have met him...oh god, I just remembered...my phone!” Drake looked around for wherever his uniform jacket was. “He just bought that for me, is it still working?”

“Hold on a second...” Launchpad laughed and went over to where Drake’s costume jacket was hanging over a wooden chair. “Here, it looks fine, not a scratch…”

“Not a scratch, but I bet the memory is fried,” Drake moaned and took the phone and held the power button.

To his infinite shock, it turned on.

“Okay fine,” he said. “Yes, luck is still with me…”

The text message from Gladstone that was waiting for him caused him to fall back in his bed roaring with laughter.

 **Gladdy:** What the hell did you inhale after you got off the boat? Gunpowder?

Drake snickered, and showed Launchpad the text at his confused look, and then formed a reply.

 **Drake:** In the JD we made a rule, only DW deals with MV. I’d forgotten about that. And we only use initials for security, in case you’re confused.

Launchpad busied himself by gathering up Darkwing’s costume and gas gun, humming to himself as they waited for the return of the doctor from whatever he was doing so Drake could find out if he could go home. Gladstone sent a response.

 **Gladdy:** Why?

Why. Not about the initials, but about Megavolt. Drake leaned back into his pillow and let the memory fill him.

_The Justice Ducks were all having a laugh at him after yet another Megavolt caper where he got shocked, but Gizmoduck, in charge of first aid, decided in infinite confusion to start testing him with all sorts of gadgets from his suit, much to Darkwing’s annoyance._

_“Darkwing, I do believe your system is starting to build up a resistance to electrocution,”_

_“Interesting,” Morgana said, as Darkwing tried hastily to get himself untangled from Gizmoduck’s many testing gadgets. “Perhaps we should make it a rule that Darkwing is the first response against Megavolt.”_

_“This isn’t a medically certified test!” Darkwing countered. “We should make a rule to always wear rubber gloves when dealing with him.”_

_“Most certainly!”_

_“I don’t know Darkwing, you sure have survived a lot of electric shocks…” Launchpad argued. “I like the idea about wearing rubber,” and he grinned, childishly, at the clear and obvious joke in the comment._

_“Darkwing, you actually generate a small amount of electricity yourself,” Gizmoduck sounded jealous. “You should be wearing this suit, you’d be able to recharge the battery through a trickle charge.”_

_“Please tell me I’m not going to turn into a Megavolt clone?” Darkwing complained._

_“Having his super powers would be awesome!” said someone nearby, it might have been Rubber Chicken._

_The one hero who should have always been dealing with Megavolt._

_“Well, then it's settled,” said Morgana, and Darkwing had been the only protester._

He really really hated that rule. But there was some truth to it, that he has the most experience, and thus most survivability, with Megavolt. Still, that electricity fact wasn’t something he wanted the world to know, especially not Megavolt or anyone who might want to test him on the fact.

 **Drake:** Nobody else is crazy enough. :P

Drake hoped that his response got a laugh, he didn’t get a chance to check as the doctor came in, looked him over and decided to keep him for one or two more nights, despite his complaints, and then, with a guilty look, asked him for a favor.

“Could you help us with...Mr Sputterspark?”

_Speak of the devil..._

“What’s wrong? Sparky not cooperating?” Drake said, sitting up.

“Well, no, it's not that. He has you, uh, Drake Mallard, listed as next of kin in his medical record.”

“Me?” now that astonished him. “Why me?”

“You’ll have to ask him. But we need permission from a family member to operate without sedation or anesthesia.”

“What….?” Launchpad looked up from his own phone, which he had been playing with.

“Oh god,” Drake said. “How many pain meds did you try giving him?”

“All of them we’re legally permitted to,” the doctor shook his head, and Drake followed him out the door, slowly limping along and thinking that staying the night was probably a good idea. “He burns off the chemicals before they have any effect. Knocking him out would work, if we could find something that could do it. But he has a massive build up of infection already in his left ear...if we don’t clear it out now he’s going to lose his hearing, maybe the ear…”

Drake just plodded along determinedly, noting that Launchpad was quickly following along behind him, the nurses and people on the burn ward parting like the red sea as they went. 

“Just let me know what you need from me…”

“Well besides signing the document, maybe you could keep him company? We have never ever done this before…”

“Only Sparky,” Drake shook his head, the reality of what would be happening filling him with infinite dread as they both pushed into the operating theatre, both of them leaving Launchpad hovering outside the door, nervously.

For his part, it looked like Megavolt was cooperating. They had him strapped down completely to his bed, head, shoulders, arms, waist and legs, but he wasn’t struggling. One lazy looking police officer was sitting on a chair in a corner, reading a magazine and doing the ‘guard duty’ job. Megavolt had a padded ankle cuff connecting from him to the operating table, but other than all of this, he was looking bored, and tired, like he’d just woken up.

“Hey Elmo,” Drake said.

“Darkwing, what the hell did they call you for?”

“You listed me as your next of kin?”

“Did I?” he blanked. “When did I do that?”

“Are you ready for us to begin?” the doctor interrupted.

“Yeah, sure, I’m already in enough pain anyways, why not some more?” Megavolt looked almost bored. “I just wish the noise would go away...all the noise…so much noise...” his voice turned into a gritted whisper, and Drake took the man’s hand, causing his eyes to open. Slowly, his eyes changed from confusion to stunned revelation.

“Wait, didn’t I used to go to school with you?”

“Yeah, Drake Mallard is my name, remember? My secret identity has been out for awhile now…”

The doctors moved in around him, laying protective towels over him to keep him clean and setting up their equipment.

“So, um, Elmo,” Drake said, as he could feel the man’s hand trembling in his. “Do you remember that girl, in our third year of high school?”

“Girl?”

“The one who I was crazy about?”

As he started the distracting conversation, the nurses had begun cleaning the area, and the doctor was listening to their conversation quietly, just whispering his instructions to the rest of his team.

“Oh yeah...ow...the girl with the red hair…..mmmhhhnng!”

Apparently the work was starting, Elmo suddenly clutched his hand tightly, but his eyes were focused on Drake’s now, desperate for the distraction.

“And...and you, and all the guys, and even Hamm, all came over to my house to put me through a ‘dating girls’ training course that the lot of you had put together in the park?”

“Yeah yeah, because all her friends wouldn’t go to the big party with anyone unless she had a….gggggggguuuhhnn!”

“She needed a date too…” Drake continued hastily. “And I was so inexperienced in any way shape or form…”

Megavolt's eyes were shut tight and watering, but he kept talking. 

“I remember those awful pick up lines Hamm tried to teach everyone...did any of those actually work?”

“Oh, no, not a single one. I did get a nice slap,” Drake actually blushed at the memory. “And you connected me to the car’s battery in hopes of...what was it again? Amping me up…?”

“Hah, you didn’t look so amped when I told you how much live electricity I was gonna…”

He didn’t finish. The scream of pain was accompanied by the feeling of Drake’s burned fingers in their padded bandaging being squeezed so tight that Drake could not see through sudden blinding tears.

“I’m right here Elmo, it's...going to be alright…”

\----------- 

Jay Gander Hooter could not contain his look of amazement when Drake Mallard finally slipped out of the surgical suite looking utterly exhausted and pained. Launchpad had briefed Jay Gander the moment he had arrived on the scene and they had both waited patiently whilst the medical team worked, the sound of Drake talking to the patient as the medical team operated, punctuated by sudden agonized screams, was enough to give any man a sense of complete and utter admiration for Darkwing Duck.

_Such infinite mercy, I have never in the past seen him do anything like this. What has caused such a change in him?_

Drake barely acknowledged Jay Gander, just gave a shrug and a nod and they slowly walked together back to his room. Launchpad was looking severely tired himself, and Jay Gander wondered briefly if he could get away with ordering the man not to go home to his wife, and just crash at the hospital for the rest of the day. But the sun had long since risen, it was almost noon. Neither of them would get away with it, he expected an earful was going to be had very shortly by one tired pilot when he got home.

“Darkwing,” Jay Gander started once they were in the room and Drake was making a tired beeline for the bed. “I was rather pleased to see you back on the wing again, so to speak. And rest assured, you are still considered an employee of S.H.U.S.H and are covered by our medical insurance.”

“That is good to hear,” Drake admitted, and as he laid his head on the pillow Jay Gander noticed him wipe away liquid from his eyes. He didn’t comment on it. “And Launchpad?”

“Uh, my airline has insurance,” Launchpad said. “I didn’t need treatment though, so I’m good. Um, I’m going to go call Monique and make sure she’s okay…”

He had been texting her when Jay Gander had arrived. Drake waited until Launchpad was out of the room to sit up and glare at him. He was infinitely angry and clearly it was showing.

“Darkwing,” Jay Gander took a step forward. “I really am happy to see you’re back…”

“Happy enough to give me some work?”

“Well, under the new rules set out by the government I can’t send you on any missions, not unless you become a fully trained agent...but I can do you one other favor…” Jay Gander sat on the end of the bed. “The bridge towers, I’ve poked the local government into giving over full control to S.H.U.S.H. for whatever we want to use them for, so you can take your pick. You are now no longer a squatter, no matter which tower you are living in from here to Duckburg.”

“Hmmmmm,” Drake looked very very pleased at that. “That does sound nice. Duckburg’s towers are really fancy...I even took pictures yesterday,” Drake laughed, bringing them up on his phone. “Do you know? Scrooge McDuck’s heir is an amazingly incredible man and all the tabloids are absolutely wrong about him.”

“Oh...yes,” Jay Gander laughed. “He’s quite an interesting man, really. I’ve had a few talks with him since his nephews disappeared about their whereabouts. I’ll have to have a meeting again with him next time he’s in St Canard, just to pick his brain about the time he spent with you.”

“Jay Gander…” Drake looked warningly at him. “You understand how I feel about being spied on like that…”

“And you know we have spies watching all the important individuals in this city,” Jay Gander said. “Yes, I had one watching you, but you managed to elude us for several days until Mister Gander arrived…”

“I like it that way. I have enough with the FBI spying on me…”

“Yes, but they shouldn’t be.”

“Any more than you should.”

“Touche…Darkwing.”

“Is there another reason you wanted to see me than to welcome me back, sir? I’m really _really_ tired.”

“I want you to have the bridge, and be Darkwing,” Jay Gander said, feeling a sudden need to get this over with, and hating it. “With the understanding that you don’t keep anything major from me again…and if you do, it’ll be over, your relationship with me and with S.H.U.S.H.”

\-------------

“What do you mean?” Drake suddenly sat up, looking confused. Jay Gander now sounded deadly serious. “What was I keeping from you?”

“This,” Jay Gander pulled out his phone...and showed him a picture of a text message conversation from a few weeks before the bomb incident, a conversation between him and Nightswan’s sidekick, Lunala the butterfly.

Drake looked over the text conversation in quiet silence.

 **NotAMoth:** D. I’m going to visit him again…

 **DW2020:** Don’t do it, he’s unstable, you are just going to trigger something bad.

 **NotAMoth:** He may be a bad guy to everyone else, but to me he’s like family, he created me. I have to make sure he understands why I chose to be N’s sidekick, why I chose to join JD…

 **DW2020:** Fine, just be careful...He might try to keep you…I’ll have someone go with you as backup...

 **NotAMoth:** Anyone but GD. I don’t trust him. Something has been off about him, have you noticed?

 **DW2020:** What? No I haven’t. But I won’t send him.

 **NotAMoth:** Promise?

Drake remembered being stunned by the request. Stunned, and helpless at the memory of what followed. He couldn’t forget the look in her eyes after that, and remembered the betrayal that she had expressed that Gizmoduck had in fact shown up, just like she hadn’t wanted. Darkwing hadn’t told him to go, he’d needed backup himself. After having arrived with Launchpad, both of them were knocked around, taking a huge beating before being thrown from the botanical gardens through a glass greenhouse window. Darkwing had been knocked out, and Launchpad had called for more backup, not knowing that Lunala didn’t trust Gizmoduck at all.

Bushroot had been a creature from hellfire trying to keep the young sidekick from leaving him forever, rising from the ground with a thousand vines he’d been growing under the botanical gardens for a very long period of time, isolated in the central greenhouse, unnoticed as just another floral attraction, and so lonely...so desperately lonely...

But Lunala had been a fragile, battered shell of herself after her rescue, just as small as a child, curled up in a hospital bed, horrifically betrayed, begging him for answers, angry and hurt, a beautiful sad ruin of life. He had apologized over and over and she had demanded he never ever break a promise to her again or she would leave. Gizmoduck’s role in the Justice Ducks had been seriously discussed between himself and Morgana after that. Nothing had been decided about the matter before...the horror that befell them all afterwards.

“I couldn’t have predicted what would happen then, letting her make contact with her creator, but…” Drake looked down at his hands. “For the record, I do regret not telling you about her concerns. I also totally regret that Gizmoduck was sent to rescue her as well. What he did to Bushroot is nothing more or less than...than…”

“I believe the word you used when you reported it to us was ‘Coleslaw’, yes,” Jay Gander sat up, and looked around the room, and Drake looked down at the phone in his hands, and slowly handed it back to its owner. “If there is any consolation, he has recovered quite well behind bars. I’d say, in fact, that he’s one of the hardest people to control in that place. You are not to blame for the extreme measures Gizmoduck took to capture him. He has to be pruned on a regular basis or he will break free.”

“I know,” Drake sighed. “But I am responsible for breaking a promise to a friend, and maybe making a risky situation worse by not listening to her concerns…” Drake shivered. “Well, since you want me to open up about everything, there are things I need to tell you.”

“You can keep your secrets, if they are not a potential threat to this city…”

“No, well maybe, I can hardly be the judge of whether this is any threat to the city or not. But you know I’ve always been able to confide in you. I just...think Launchpad should hear this too…”

“What should I hear?” Launchpad had slipped in when they were talking.

“Seriously?” Drake looked at him. “Jay Gander, have you made this man a spy yet? He always seems to be where you least expect him.”

Jay Gander Hooter laughed heartily at this, and Launchpad blushed.

“Well I...I mean…”

“Well we’re both here,” Jay Gander helpfully drew attention away from Lauchpad’s embarrassment. “What did you want to tell us?”

Suddenly Drake was feeling like a deer in the headlights. Time slowed to a grinding halt, and he turned to look out the window. It was daytime. Somewhere around lunch. Had so much time passed since he’d met Gladstone Gander?

“Well,” he swallowed, and Launchpad moved quietly to sit on the other side of the bed end that Jay Gander wasn’t occupying, like two noble sides of the same honorable coin. His mentor and employer, and his friend and follower. His ying and yang of good people. “I told Gladstone I would start to tell people, what really happened to me, in the weeks before my trial. What they did to me…”

And he slowly, painfully, but without any sort of panic attack, poured out to them the truth about what happened to him during his time in immigrations holding.

And from the horror stricken look on Launchpad’s face, and the steely glint in Jay Gander’s eye, he knew, these two people, these two friends, could be trusted to have his back no matter what he decided to do with the information in the future. Just as Gladstone had said they would.

\--------

Scrooge McDuck looked up from his desk when Gladstone Gander walked into the money bin that morning, humming a show tune and looking as if life couldn’t get any better. Feeling infinitely annoyed and ready to fight, Scrooge schooled his face into a neutral mask.

“Good morning Uncle Scrooge, still burning the midnight oil I see?”

Gladstone had noted the clock on the wall, accusingly pointed to the fact that they were there, at eight am, an hour before the office actually officially opened. Scrooge was early because he hadn’t left yet.

But he had to hand it to his nephew, Gladstone had been as good as his word when it came to making sure he arrived at the office on time, as the CEO would, to get the company started. Even if he did sort of laze about during the day, poking his nose in here and there but having very little hands on activity with anyone.

Scrooge hadn’t wanted to surrender that much control to him anyways.

“Gladstone, good morning,” he said. “May I ask you a serious question?”

“Certainly Uncle Scrooge,” said the man, but Scrooge noted the rising guarded look that filled his eyes.

Gladstone was very very good at hiding his true feelings behind the arrogant mask of indifference he had created for himself. Scrooge would break those walls down, one way or another.

“Just what in the name of sweet mercy were you doing yesterday gallivanting around the bay with Darkwing Duck of all people?”

“What was I doing?” Gladstone laughed. “You did make Sunday my day off, I was having a nice holiday, visiting the shrine, praying for love...enjoying some good food...”

“GLADSTONE!” Scrooge slammed his hand on the desk, and the water glass there tipped over and spilled onto the floor. Scrooge hastily pulled out his hanky to sop up the water before it touched his paperwork, and Gladstone moved in to save the all important documents, piling them up with his hands away from the spill. Scrooge was very quick to temper lately and regretted it almost instantly. “I mean, seriously, of all the people you choose to associate with, you think you could have avoided one of the ones that was instrumental in nearly destroying our company!!”

Gladstone stopped. He turned his back to Scrooge as if he was looking out into the vast rolling hills of coins inside the vault beyond him, not saying a word for many moments of time.

“I will be frank,” he said at last, quietly, slightly pained. “I was talking the man out of committing suicide.”

Well now. That was rather frank. Scrooge stopped for a moment. His mind calculated only very briefly before forming a reply, something he immediately regretted.

“Well what did you do that for?” he saw the shocked look in his nephew's eyes, which he would have expected in anyone’s eyes, and hastily added, “I mean there are professionals for that sort of thing, aren’t there?”

“Yes, and I’m one of them,” Gladstone took a deep, cautious breath. “You do know I’m trained in suicide prevention with my work for S.H.U.S.H.?”

Scrooge blinked, then sat up. He had almost forgotten that his nephew moonlighted for Jay Gander Hooter from time to time. But he didn’t ever recall Gladstone openly admitting it to him before.

“I...hadn’t known that.”

“Yes, and clearly it worked…” Gladstone had walked over to the big window behind Scrooge’s desk to look out over the city. “I had wanted him to find a job, and maybe start a new life and hopefully one day feel confident enough to be Darkwing Duck again. Not completely go over the edge all in one night and jump right into the swing of things. I hope he isn’t moving too fast or…”

Scrooge could smell a rat a mile away.

“You like him?” Scrooge said, wincing as his old school prejudices about his nephew’s sexuality were starting to crawl up into his stomach, up from hell where that sort of hate belonged, to start judging again. _Go away Dad, I don’t feel that way about it, that’s all you!_

“Well, quite frankly, yes but...Uncle Scrooge,” he turned and glared at him. Scrooge knew he deserved it. “I’m not taking advantage of a man who is suicidal, and, clearly, a little homicidal as well,” he walked around the desk. “But in making friends with Drake, I have learned things that are infinitely quite useful to McDuck industries...but to break the confidence of man so on the edge…yet so amazing...so wonderful...someone I would want to spend more time with...”

Scrooge rolled his eyes at the wistful change of tone, and leaned back.

“All right, all right, I won’t bother you anymore about who you spend your free time with. But tell me now, what did you learn?”

“Do you know Dalton MacArthur, the Federal agent who is working to help us locate the boys in Sibearia?”

Scrooge was perturbed.

“He’s the _only_ Federal agent helping us, I’m about ready to go back to asking a third party, like S.H.U.S.H…”

“I suggest we do,” Gladstone said slowly and fiercely, and then he related, to Scrooge McDuck’s complete and utter horror, the true story about what had happened to Darkwing Duck before the infamous trial in which he had outed the secret identity of Gizmoduck.

 _Oh my god…_ he looked down at his slowly drying desktop and shivered. “Are you sure?”

“You can’t fake that kind of trauma. He was most definitely tortured into doing anything MacArthur wanted him to do. Which is why I was shocked that he jumped into being Darkwing so quickly…he must have really wanted to catch Megavolt.”

“I don’t think it was just one villain with a wire loose that could have goaded him into that…” Scrooge looked up at Gladstone with a cautious look, noting the attempt to change the subject away from the torture as quickly as possible. Scrooge decided to be merciful. “He may be on the end of his tether, but you did offer him a million dollars…that’s a motivator if there ever was one!”

“Yeah, but if he wins it, he said he’s planning to give it to another family in need,” Gladstone looked absolutely pained, his expression speaking volumes. “He mentioned several times about a teenage boy on life support with an oxygen tank that he has been bleeding himself financially dry to take care of. I just hope the kid is all right after the blackout…he may be the only reason Darkwing is still alive.”

“Well…” Scrooge sighed. “We never know what sort of thing may motivate a man. Compassion, ambition, fame…” Scrooge paused. “But to reiterate, nephew, yes, I think we should really keep a close eye on MacArthur in the future, and find our own method for dealing with Sibearia now.”

“Good,” Gladstone said, looking like he was going to say something Scrooge wouldn’t like. “I’m looking forward to seeing you going on adventures again so I can have this office.”

“Well...uh…” Scrooge clutched at the table top covetously. “You know my heart isn’t what it was…”

“You would be fine if you did a bit more working out,” Gladstone admonished. “When was the last time you went swimming anyways? You’re still a duck. What about a few laps around the money bin?”

“Uh…I don’t think I need to push myself just yet,” nervousness crept into his voice.

He hated it. What was he afraid of?

“Come on, you old dragon,” Gladstone laughed. “Just one lap? You’re retired now, the government isn’t bothering you anymore, your money is yours, enjoy it!”

“I really am starting to get really annoyed by my decision to name you CEO,” Scrooge said, and Gladstone laughed again, taking all the paperwork from off the desk out of Scrooge’s startled hands and leaving the office with it.

“No more work, oldtimer, go and play!”

“I’ll play you, you young whippersnapper!” Scrooge admonished, waving his cane ominously at Gladstone’s retreating form through the door.

But, now he was left without his work, with a still drying desk and that open vault door...calling to him.

Scrooge sighed, and got up. The moment he stepped into the golden glow of his money bin, a strange feeling began to fill his stomach. He put his hat and his cane on their hook on the wall, and pulled out his glasses case from his pocket to make sure his specs were safely protected. The bin was humming its sweet song, the siren song, the ancient mariner’s tale, the melody of his malady of money lust. The pandora’s box that had nearly ruined his company, the golden fleece, the many many treasures that he had reached for, searched for, fought for, schemed for, dreamed of, all realized here in this space. He extended the built in diving board slowly, wondering if he was really up for this.

A fire was filling his belly. Hot lava in every vein, pouring through his body, pumping through his heart, through the new artificial valve, the energy of the bin reaching into every pore of his skin, his bones, igniting an inferno within him as he walked out onto the diving board and took his diving stance. He waited for a moment.

A dragon was roaring, in the back of his mind, fierce with the need to feed its lustful and greedy desire. And it almost felt as if he had sprouted wings before he made his leap, hanging for a moment in the air as he were going to fly. But he dove, feeling the sudden rush of the money towards him, and the embrace of cool metal coins, so much like liquid, yet so different, and his legs kicked and he coiled and curled, and stroked his arms, and pushed forward with his snoot, and felt his tail wiggling, as if he had a large lashing fierce scaled thing to drive him forward, instead of the nubby tuft of feathers that gave him no push as he slowly climbed and reached the top again.

His head came up almost perfectly next to his number one dime, and he turned, and moved his body up into a lazy float position, eyes level with the coins, beak only partially out, and feeling all the roaring hot pounding of his blood settle into a purring contentedness as the dragon within him stilled momentarily and allowed him to bask in the majesty of being completely and beautifully covered in precious metal.

For a moment he paused. His money bin now had another secret inside it, and he eyed, on the pile of coins next to his dime, a small unimportant brown leather briefcase, sitting there casually, as if it has simply been lain there forgotten by one of his attorneys, stumbling away off to some other important task.

He hoped one day that the forgetful owner would return to retrieve what was rightfully his. One day. But for now...the dragon would guard all his secrets, his treasures, his vast wealth.

And enjoy a bit of a backstroke at the same time. Scrooge kicked up one lazy foot, and then began his joyful undulation at this sweet golden bliss that was his retirement package.


	14. Soap Opera

Launchpad McQuack pulled his car onto the main highway out to the airfields, keeping his eyes on the road, and severely aware of just how heavy traffic there was today. People from outside St Canard, mostly tourists, running for the commercial airports in panic after the blackout the night before, and ending their weekend trips early. Then again, it was a Monday most were probably people going to work or heading home from a weekend gig.

The weekend was usually pretty busy along this road, the drive from the bridge was infinitely worse, he thanked his lucky stars he didn’t have to take that crossing to get out to his airstrip, and was even more thankful when he saw that Monique’s custom retrofitted World War II Kittyhawk fighter was out on the strip. He was severely relieved, this meant that she was home again, he’d been worried about her.

She hadn’t answered the texts he’d sent her before fighting Megavolt, and that had worried him completely inside and out. She had texted him she was all right when he had tried to get a message out to her from the hospital, but had done so from a friend’s phone, as she’d lost hers somewhere during her trip to the Cape.

_She used a burner...she does that a lot when she’s doing her Aerial Ace thing._

He parked in his usual spot, noted that his own biplane was sitting out on the strip as well, ready for a student pilot lesson or maybe a delivery, and felt his pride filling him. Despite his not being there half the day she had managed to get all the morning’s work done. He wondered if they were teaching students today, she usually didn’t bother bringing both planes for just a cargo run.

He waited out on the strip watching her as she came tromping out of the barn where they usually kept the planes, her hands on her hips in that no nonsense kind of way.

“Oh there you are!” she said, and he had a moment of regret seeing the worry on her beautiful face. “Scared me half to death running around like that! What were you…Launchpad?” she paused mid-sentence and said his name. It must have been something in his eyes. “Sugarfly are you alright?”

Sugarfly, her pet name for him, was enough to make him pull her into his arms and bury his face in her curly hair fluff, inhaling the scent of her hair cream, something with coconut, and the wonderful curves of her body against him. Her black canine nose was so soft against his bill. Every bird needed to marry a mammal, in his opinion, if only for that wonderful feel of a warm nose and soft fur against one's feathers.

He hadn’t been married long, it had been only a few months before the whole disaster of the bomb and the trials, but she had been with him tirelessly through the whole charade, everything with S.H.U.S.H. and the questions he’d been asked by agents and the Federal investigators. She’d been through every hard rough moment and had been the tall one through it all, holding him standing.

“Come on Baby, tell the Ace what’s troubling you?”

Launchpad laughed, and pulled back to look her in the eyes. Monique wasn’t just any old vintage plane aficionado. He had met her through Justice Ducks. She was Aerial Ace, the superheroine fighter pilot of Cape Suzette. A business woman running a small but mighty cargo business in the Cape, and then a dogfighter bounty hunter chasing air pirates along the coast in her side hustle, as she called it. Launchpad had gone on a few runs to Cape Suzette for investigations with Darkwing in the Thunderquack, and after a couple of run-ins with her, they recruited her to the Justice Ducks.

Best decision they had ever made in their lives, in Launchpad’s opinion. Or at least in his life. In more ways than one. She just fit with him so perfectly. Once they’d married she’d basically merged his airfield with her cargo company in the Cape and they now had a tiny monopoly of sorts on small cargo delivery in the area. They even had their own employee!

“I have a very very good friend who is very self-sacrificing and at the very bottom of his barrel, where I thought the bottom couldn’t get any lower...and I just learned _more_ bad things, and everything seems infinitely worse. And you feel so darn wonderful to hold right now. I just needed a hug really.”

“Oh Sugarfly you know I’m always gonna be up for a little lovin’,” she kissed his bill, and he blushed. “Tell me all about it and we can wash the Cloudkicker.”

She had named her crime fighting fighter plane for a famous air pilot from the 30s and 40s, and it was painted in sky blue and white with her ‘Ace’ curly name on the side and a bullseye of red white and blue on the tail. She fought bad guys as a crime fighter with the Cloudkicker, and then had pulled out an old seaplane when doing cargo runs from the Cape. Now they had an employee in Cape Suzette named Vinny, who handled the sea plane, and Launchpad’s biplane handled their cargo from the landing strip in St Canard. Monique flew her fighter back and forth between ports to manage everything and both of them taught flying lessons in between cargo hauls. Basically their business was two sides of a very well polished coin. Somehow, things all worked out for them.

But they were newlyweds, who had known each other only a year before being married. He’d had a lot of trouble not knowing how much to tell her about everything he did as a sidekick. She had very quickly figured out who Drake Mallard really was. It was almost impossible to keep secrets from her.

And there was this unspoken rule in marriage he was just starting to learn, that not confiding in the wife could be much more disastrous than trusting her with sensitive information. So he told her, in confidence that she would never share, about Drake’s troubles, all of them, the suicide attempt, the torture, everything he had told Launchpad.

“Drake should sue!” she said, and he could tell the righteous fury was starting to rise. She could be very terrifying when she was angry. Hence why air pirates feared her. “Should take the government and the Feds straight to the Supreme Court!”

“He’s not ready to yet,” Launchpad said, calmly. “And Jay Gander suggested he should wait until S.H.U.S.H. could properly gather up the evidence he would need for such a thing, because the FBI works very fast to cover up their tracks. But he has a lawyer’s number and he said he was going to call and discuss his options, because he is broke and really can’t afford a lawyer. By the way, I think I might get Drake’s car out of the pound for him,” Launchpad winced thinking of the money. He blamed Scrooge McDuck for training him to be thrifty with his work expenses. “He needs a vehicle. He has a potential job in Duckburg, even though it's only once and a while, so he’s going to need something to drive.”

They had grabbed their buckets of soapy water and the sponges and were walking out to the Cloudkicker, and Launchpad had a brief moment of sadness, seeing the Thunderquack under a tarp in the airfield’s lone disused parking lot, next to a similarly wrapped up ratcatcher. He’d driven his car to pick up some supplies when the blackout happened. He’d have to start cleaning these two vehicles up again, start tuning their engine, sand off the rust and put on a fresh coat of paint.

Darkwing Duck was back in action. And Launchpad, knowing how infinitely busy he was these days, was going to teach Darkwing how to fly the Thunderquack if it killed him. From time to time Darkwing had managed to get to the ground safely in the thing, but he needed to at least learn how to not crash. If Launchpad could do it…

Not that he didn’t want to fly it himself. Piloting the Thunderquack always filled him with such a thrill and pride that could never be replaced by any bi-plane. He was mostly thinking of his future plans with Monique. About having a baby.

Then again...Monique would probably bring the baby right in the pilot’s seat with her. He had to think twice about that.

“I think that’s a crazy good idea,” she said, in response to his suggestion that they rescue the car. “And tell him we’re good for having him stay over whenever he wants.”

“Well, he’s got the tower back, as long as he wants now, they won’t kick him out for squatting. So he’s going to start rebuilding the Darkwing hideout. We’ll be able to get Ratcatcher and Thunderquack out of our precious airstrip space like you’ve been complaining about.”

She laughed and flung some soap bubble from her spunge at him.

“Hey quit it!” Launchpad leaned down to avoid the next soap bombardment. “Anyway, he’s always pretty much preferred doing his own thing, and bringing people in when he’s comfortable. That’s how we always worked as a team. He’s a natural leader, but has a hard time admitting when he needs help.

“He’s a solitary bird,” Monique said in agreement. “A lone ranger..”

“A lone ranger who needs to be willing to reach out to his friends. I never thought much of Gladstone Gander before, but now, I’m gonna buy him a huge box of chocolate and deliver it by hand in person to him in Duckburg, as soon as we get a free spot in our schedule. And I can see by all the planes out of the barn we have some work to do?”

“Oh yeah, we got tourists coming for some classes,” Monique laughed and got down to business while they got down to business. “So, let me tell you what me and the rest of the JD found in the Cape while we were out of town...gawd those air pirates sure won’t give Vinny a break will they?”

They both shared a laugh as they soaped up the Cloudkicker and hosed it down, Monique playfully splashing him with water whenever she got the chance and Launchpad laughingly dodging her and coming back at her with his own playful liquid vengeance. It wasn’t long before their first trainee pilots for the day came through the gate and all thoughts and worries about his friend were put firmly out of his mind.

\----------

“Binkie?” Drake Mallard peeked his head into the hospital room, feeling infinitely glad he had decided to poke in for a visit. “Is Honker awake now?”

Honker gave him a smile and a single thumbs up from the bed, but didn’t speak. He was awake, but back on a heart monitor along with the oxygen tank, which really troubled him. Binkie wasn’t awake, she was stretched out on her usual chair and Drake knew she would want to talk to him so he reluctantly went over to pat her hand. The hospital set up their children’s ward with wonderful little convertible chairs that pulled out into temporary beds, and she was snoozing softly away on this thing, looking tired and careworn, a light blanket of her own jacket thrown over her carefully, and a tray of water and food nearby she must have been eating, probably brought in by some thoughtful nurse.

“Bink?” he said, and then moved the hand to her shoulder. “You awake?”

“Oh, Drake, my goodness,” she yawned, and sat up, her voice immediately cheerful despite the circumstances she and her family had been under for the last four months. Had it really been that long? “I was hoping you’d come…What time is it?”

“Just about two pm,” he said, and now that she was awake and getting herself focused, he focused his own attention on the sixteen year old on the bed.

All minors in long term care were usually housed in this ward. The bright animals on the walls of the hallway and in the rooms here were a bit too young for a boy honker’s age to appreciate. Not technically a child, but not an adult, Honker had been a small and rather round youth, taking after his dad in some of his physical shape, but his mother in his looks. Now he was a very thin frail wraith on the bed. He sat down next to the boy, and then noticed he hadn’t any glasses on and went looking around his side table for them.

“What, did you lose them?” he said when he finally gave up. “Binkie, check that side.”

“Not sure where they got to sir,” Honker said, his voice muffled by the mask over his face. “I had my heart stop last night and they got lost somewhere there, but power came back on quick…” he was very positive, and his eyes were actually smiling. “I heard Lockjaw's report about you on TV! I said you would be back, I knew, I knew!”

Heart stop and power back on told him a million things, and explained the heart monitor. But the smile on his face, and the comment about seeing him on TV was enough to keep Drake from losing his cool entirely and he laughed reluctantly. They found his glasses stuck below his pillow along the side of the hospital bed rail.

“Yeah, well,” Drake shrugged. “I couldn’t let everyone down could I?”

He took the boy’s hand and Binkie put her own coat around Drake’s shoulders. She had started to dote on him in their one on one interactions the way she had with her husband. It was something he wasn’t going to talk to her about just yet. She wasn’t probably aware of it, being a creature of habits meant she was just defaulting to whatever came most naturally to her.

“Oh you’re hurt,” Honker said in distress, noting his bandages.

“Just the usual first and second degree burns from Megavolt’s electrical shocks, nothing severe enough to need a skin graft. Might have lost some feathers,” he scratched at the bandages. “So,” he noted Binkie pulled another chair over to sit next to him, effectively pinning him in. “What happened with your heart?”

It went on for a while, with Binkie explaining what the doctors had recommended, the whole disaster with the hospital, the hospital itself needing a faster up time for the back up generator, and generally just Honker needing a portable battery of his own for the oxygen tank concentrator if he wanted to be sure of constantly having oxygen flow.

Another bill for the Muddlefoots. Herb’s unemployment insurance was not that good.

He sent up a silent prayer for a brand new set of undamaged lungs, a new body, or at least, all the newest advances in medicine. If losing the use of nearly half his body wasn’t bad enough, the youth was dealing with the possibility of never being able to breath without medical equipment again.

“But, he’s healed up enough now that they can go in and do the next surgery,” Binkie said with positivity. Her hands, he could see, were trembling ever so slightly. “Hopefully he’ll get the feeling back in his left arm, maybe his legs...we hope… Oh Honker! Tell him what you had asked me to get for you? Drake, Honker wants an...um...what did you call it?”

“An abacus,” Honker said, and pulled himself a little more upright. “To get some of my hand and eye coordination back. I thought about that when they were putting me through the whole moving a ball up and down and moving a pen around on a page. Well an abacus would be more fun…”

“It would, that sounds good, you’re right,” Drake chuckled. “I’ll see what I can find…” he felt Binkie slip a bit of money in his hand under the bed and nodded. “Will take a trip out to the asian market when I get my car back. I think Launchpad is going to get it for me.”

“He dropped in before he left...are you going to stay with him?”

“I have my own place,” Drake said, wincing. “I couldn’t handle the sound of all the air and highway traffic all night and all day the first time I stayed there. How do they do it? Then again, I sleep to the sound of bridge traffic in the tower...Since I can sleep in any bridge tower I want now, I could probably get away with that nice peaceful one next to the foghorn.”

Honker even had a laugh at that bit of sarcasm.

“We’re so glad you’re Darkwing again,” Honker said. “Right mom?”

“Right dear,” Binkie looked positively like she wanted to cry and collapse at the same time. “Honker never stopped saying it, he’ll be Darkwing again, over and over. It made him so happy seeing you on tv.”

“It did. What made you decide to come back?”

Drake felt that this little guy deserved the truth, so he told him, in brief, about the kind Duckburgian who he had poured out his heart to, without naming names, and then left the Muddlefoots alone for awhile so he could go back to his room, making his excuses with as much positivity as he could muster before he left.

Binkie had given him a five dollar bill. It probably wouldn’t be enough for an abacus, but it would help with bus fare out to the flea market. Drake Mallard returned to his room, and his bed, and wept, curling up in a helpless ball and crying. And finally, when he thought about it, he reached for the cell phone still sitting on his bedside table and hit the big green call button next to a certain duck’s name.

“Drake?” The voice on the other side was such a relief to hear, he felt his whole world tilting back into its natural orbit immediately.

“Hey,” Drake said, and not bothering with any pleasantries added, “I needed to hear your voice again.”

“It’s good to hear yours too,” came the reply. “How are you? Are you all right? You ran back onto the battlefield pretty quickly.”

“I know. It was terrible...I’m at the hospital,” he admitted that without hesitation. “I feel miserable and I need a hug, badly.”

“Well, by a stroke of good luck I’ve got another meeting in St Canard today,” said Gladstone immediately. “I’ll come right over after I’m done with this thing I’m about to get dragged into. Anything you want me to bring? Something to eat?”

“Something a little more appetizing than hospital food,” said Drake. “Other than that, I just need that hug. It's been a really long agonizing couple of days. I’ve barely slept, by the way, maybe it's the second degree burns, or that I’m in the hospital in a strange place, but I just can’t sleep.”

“I’ll bring you something edible, and some of those hugs and you will definitely get some sleep, I’ll stake my luck on it. See you later then?” Drake chuckled his agreement and warmly closed the call.

\-------

When Gladstone arrived, carrying a nice full take out styrofoam container of fried rice and vegetables, he found Drake half dozing, bandaged and curled up in a hospital nightgown, looking so tired he didn’t feel like waking the man. He let the smell of food rouse him into waking instead, grabbing a wooden chair from nearby that someone had been sitting on at the end of the bed, and pulled up right beside him.

“Hey,” Drake said, still half sleeping, and sat up a little more so that Gladstone could bend down to hug him, as promised. “You were right, got a little sleep waiting for you. And that smells amazing.”

“I’m glad,” Gladstone kept his voice low, putting the bag with the food and the utensils onto the side table. “I was running a bit late. SEC Tech’s CEO is a real _thrill_ to talk to, let me tell you,” he added as sarcastically as possible. “He treats me like I’m a member of the local scout troop that he’s giving a tour to. I wanted to rip the fake plastic beads out of his feathers…The man has absolutely no shame. None.”

Gladstone Gander was not in any position to judge the cultural choices of anyone of Native heritage. But he knew that Maxwell Shrife was only using his Native ancestry as a way to advertise his Earth friendliness in light of being CEO of one of the newest green energy technology companies in North America. And SEC Tech itself was only making the move to go green and rebrand in order to follow the market trends.

“Oh, is Shrife playing up the ‘American Eagle pride’ thing still?” Drake seemed relieved for the neutral subject, and Gladstone laughed.

“Definitely is, despite having grown up in Spoonerville and never having stepped foot on a single inch of reservation land. And the whole ‘One Connected Earth’ stuff with this new ad campaign... _gag_ me. He’s totally stealing it all from the New Earth Green Group charity. And you wouldn’t think he had once been employed by one of the biggest polluters in the country, the way he talks up new green technology…”

“SEC Tech has done nothing but advertise since they moved in to their new offices…” Drake moaned. “But that’s all they have done, is move into the offices, they haven’t done anything else…and they promised jobs here over a year ago when they bid for that office space.”

“Not just yet,” Gladstone smiled secretively. “McDuck Industries is going to be doing some things with them in the area, but don’t tell anybody, we’re in the negotiation stage still.”

Drake grinned, put a finger to his lips, then reached out pointedly for the styrofoam clamshell for his take out meal.

“I got enough for us to share, I hope you don’t mind,” Gladstone said, grabbing a plastic fork and spoon out of the bag and ignoring the buzz of his phone.

His uncle probably wanted to know all about his meeting with Shrife.

_Too bad so sad, Uncle Scrooge._

“It smells good, thanks, yeah this is a lot for one person,” Drake laughed and they started eating out of the same container, unconsciously sharing the food without concern for shared germs, smiling and toasting by bumping their forks together.

Both of them were very happily taking bites of rice, with Gladstone chattering about the little Korean restaurant he had found and bought the meal from, when he felt it.

A sudden, sort of feeling of the entire planet sinking down into a dark black hole. All the air left the room. His luck was vibrating with an alarm of extreme caution, the type that he usually got before he dodged out of the way of a speeding car. The darkness had descended. Another person had entered the room with them.

Drake’s eyes had turned sideways to note the stranger, and then widened, face suddenly turning white. Gladstone didn’t have to look up to know who had entered.

“Ah, Mister Gander,” Dalton MacArthur strode into the room as if he owned it, in the way he always did with his recent visits to the money bin, much to Scrooge McDuck’s considerable distress. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here. How...fortunate.”

Gladstone barely turned to look at him, and then noticed Jay Gander Hooter was standing apologetically just outside the hospital room door.

“Dalton,” Gladstone turned, using the man’s first name, because he knew, by luck, that it would annoy him. “I wasn’t expecting you either.”

“MacArthur, if you please,” he corrected thickly, and pulled up for their inspection a large brown manilla envelope, stuffed fat, to place on the end of Drake’s bed. “I’m sorry for the wait, Mister Mallard. It took a great deal of effort to get this information for you, but I do hope you find it useful."

Drake was still sitting like a deer in headlights, mouth slightly agape, eyes dilated, and chest barely gasping out his breaths.

Gladstone knew. He could feel it. This man was what Drake was afraid of, not the water itself. Gladstone was going to do something that his Uncle would probably hate him for, or at least be angry at him for awhile, but something he knew would help go a long way to fixing the considerable rift between Darkwing Duck and his Uncle, and would hopefully flatten Dalton MacArthur’s overarching ego like a pancake.

“While I have you here, MacArthur I have a message from my Uncle…” he said, and noted Jay Gander had yet to even enter the room.

That was telling.

“Yes?” MacArthur shot an eyebrow up.

“Yes, ahem, and I quote: ‘If Dalton MacArthur had put as much of an effort into negotiating with Sibearia as he did in making normal people’s lives a miserable living hell, the boys would have been home months ago.’” and Gladstone pulled a slightly used and wrinkled cotton hanky from his jacket pocket and carefully folded it into the top of MacArthur’s clean breast pocket, invading the man’s personal space. “In other words, we’ll let S.H.U.S.H. and the European Union handle things from here on out, you go back to whatever it is you actually do for a living. And don’t worry, we won’t even notice you’ve gone.”

Jay Gander looked like he was going to choke. MacArthur’s eyes had turned into the steel of every sword that had ever been tempered in the history of the Earth, and he pulled out the hanky pointedly to toss on the ground.

“You, Mister Gander, need to learn that there are some things that even your considerable good luck cannot give you...” MacArthur said.

“A government that does its job?” Gladstone countered, and Jay Gander actually smiled.

MacArthur turned and stalked out of the room, looking like death incarnate. As soon as he was gone, Jay Gander actually entered the room with a chuckle.

“Well that was certainly worth eavesdropping for,” he said, and turned to look at Drake next, his expression one of severe contriteness. “I’m sorry Drake, he was already here when I arrived, and the choice was to come up with him and see what he was up to myself, or to come back later…”

“No...no it’s fine,” Drake said, though his voice was anything but fine. He was looking at the envelope at the end of his bed in concern. “I…”

“I think you need more rest,” Gladstone said, and he made sure to personally pick up the envelope, and hand it over to Drake himself so the man wouldn’t be as afraid to touch it. “Handle whatever this is when you’re well rested.”

“I agree,” Jay Gander said, and Gladstone had a grin when the elder gentleman sat on the end of the bed, clearly planning to stay for a moment. “I’ll try to be more careful about making sure you know _before_ , not _when_ , that man is going to show up suddenly in your life.”

Drake just shrugged, but he was still pale and his hands were shaking. Gladstone took one of them into his and held it. Drake squeezed his hand back gratefully.

“At any rate, I wanted to let you know, I found some work for you, when you’re ready to leave the hospital,” Jay Gander looked rather pleased with himself. “The city is looking for a few people to handle bringing in a bunch of supplies for building temporary shelter in the refugee allotment, and I told them to hold a spot for you on the team. The company donating supplies is Glomgold industries...”

“Glomgold donated building supplies to a charitable cause…?” Gladstone spoke before Drake could. “That’s a new one.”

“Oh...thank you,” Drake said, momentarily confused.

“You’re welcome,” Jay Gander handed Drake a smaller, less obvious white envelope, “Have a pleasant rest, Drake Mallard, we need you in top shape to protect the city,” he quickly took his leave so they could be alone again.

Silence filled the room for a moment. Drake was still looking shell shocked.

“Huh,” Drake held up the envelope. “Civilian work?”

“No Drake,” Gladstone sat back into the chair he had been sitting in before, understanding that Drake was feeling probably quite a bit overwhelmed and the Darkwing portion of his brain wasn’t yet putting two and two together. “You know Glomgold has ties to F.O.W.L. right?”

Drake jerked up his head to look up into Gladstone’s eyes, and a light of understanding filled them, and determination, the horror of MacArthur’s visit flying out the window.

“Undercover work.”

“Hmm,” Gladstone sat back, and put two fingers to his bill. “My Uncle used to engage in rather friendly wagers with old Flintheart. I wonder if I should take up the tradition and go visit his mine?”

“Be careful,” Drake said, looking down at the envelope. “Glomgold’s nephew is a bit of an idiot, so Glomgold hired ex-SteelCo employees to manage his St Canard interests. Steelbeak being the most notable employee. There is no _way_ he’s really been reformed from his life of crime. He may have been under the radar for the last year or two since getting out of jail, but he’s doing something shady for F.O.W.L., I just know it.”

“Don’t you worry about me, I’m just thinking I’ll challenge Old Glommy to a game of golf,” said Gladstone, glad that he had never confided with Drake the work he usually did for S.H.U.S.H., this man had way too many worries as it was. “He has his own fancy new golf course now and I hear it's exclusive to employees so it would take a wager to convince him to let a McDuck like me visit…”

Drake laughed, and pointedly started eating the rice again. Good, Drake needed energy to deal with whatever ticking time bomb MacArthur had just brought to them in the thick brown confines of the envelope, still laying like an accusation next to Drake on the bed.

Whatever it was, his luck was filling him with a sense of complete and utter caution at its presence. This was something Drake would want privacy for, whatever it was, and he made a point to excuse himself briefly to text his secretary and arrange for a hotel in the city so that he could be in town should Drake need to reach out to him in any way.

Uncle Scrooge would complain about his absence. Let him. This was why they had offices in St Canard now, so Gladstone could have some professional distance from his Uncle during this transition of power.

Discovering the mystery information Drake had from MacArthur, and a chance to spy on Glomgold’s mining activities, was worth the fuss. Clearly...Jay Gander had intended him to get involved, or he _would_ have come back later. Sometimes, Jay Gander gave him missions without even having to say a word.

It was rarer, with his spy work, but there were times, like this, when it felt like everything was just going to fall right into place. 

_And if I’m right, Glomgold has something nasty planned for the city having to do with that bucket mine, and I’m going to find out what._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had decided early on in planning this story that I wanted Gladstone spying for Jay Gander Hooter, but I wasn't sure I wanted him to be an official spy. Plus he's a CEO so he doesn't have the full time career as a spy, he just sort of shows up unexpectedly right when he might be useful. I almost abandoned the idea, but I have something I really want to write later down the road, and this kind of makes it a little bit easier to fit in.


	15. Mothers and Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not feeling too well, so its a bit of a rough chapter. I'm feeling a little ill the last couple days.

Drake Mallard lay on his side on the bed, the night sky staring in at him from the window, feeling as if he was just about done with the hospital, but obeying the doctor’s orders to stay one more night. His burned flippers ached and his hands felt itchy with dried scabs and crusty skin under the bandages. He needed to get them cleaned and rewrapped, as soon as the sun rose. For now he was fingering his bandages, wondering when that luck-proven sleep he had been promised by Gladstone would come along.

 _I probably need to pray to Fortuna first, or something…_ Drake mentally grumbled.

The brown envelope still sat as an accusation on the side table. He tried to ignore it, he really did not want to know. And he was afraid.

_I asked for the information from MacArthur before my trial, before the acquittal, before I went out and became the pariah of the people of St Canard. I had forgotten…He’s just fulfilling my request. Nothing wrong with that._

But something still didn’t quite feel right. Drake sat up and reached for the light. The envelope was not going to disappear, and Gladstone was staying at a hotel nearby if he had a breakdown of some kind from seeing what was inside. The clock said it was four after midnight. The city was at peace.

He ripped open the envelope, and pulled out the contents, a bunch of paperwork in Chinese falling out onto his lap, newspaper articles, some photos, and a smaller envelope. He focused momentarily on the photographs.

_Put yourself in Darkwing mode for this, or you’ll really be a mess..._

Drake sorted through it all as if investigating a crime, carefully examined every document, noting every date. He pulled out a smaller envelope from the pile that was thick, and clinked with metal. The most recent pictures were, thank god, of his parents from about a month ago, taken from somewhere in Nepal. They had escaped Tibet safely. An older article showed his mother’s restaurant burning down in a ‘tragic accident’ with both his parents missing. A couple articles of the bomb drop and Drake’s trial from the perspective of the Chinese media. That was interesting.

His grandparents' obituaries, when he finally found them in the pile, didn’t really stir much inside him at all. Really, he had never met them, not even when he’d been to Tibet to visit his father at the monastery. His father’s family was all gone. His mother’s parents had been yak herders. There was a tiny picture of the two of them with a couple of yaks. Somehow that didn’t surprise him at all.

What did surprise him was the fat envelope which had money in it, and a handwritten note. It was dated from a week ago. He covetously read the neatly lettered Tibetan script, smelling the sweetness of his mother’s perfume, and there were barely visible greasy fingerprints, from his father, he was certain, stuck to the edges of the paper. His father had always smeared a bit when he wrote.

_Dear son, we are sending all that we can to help you. We have been meeting with the woman from the United States, who has been telling us things and hoping to help us move somewhere closer to you. We are praying for you, and we are safe, do not put yourself in danger for us. Take care of yourself. Always we’re proud of you._

Both had signed their names, his father’s handwriting rather shaky. A few blots in the ink showed the tell tale sign of tears.

He held up the recent picture, his parents at a refugee camp, and obsessed over every last detail of their faces, longing to curl up in their arms again like he had as a child. He desperately wanted to travel down their street as a family, their usual walk to the river, where Drake would sail a little wooden boat on a string his father had made for him, while his mother unpacked their lunch on the dock. His father would go fishing there sometimes as well.

_A picnic...I wish they could have met Gosalyn. Maybe one day they will...and we can all go on a picnic by the bay..._

Drake finally leaned back to count the money, which was some paper yuan and a handful of coins.

About forty dollars US. He held the money, wonderingly. He hadn’t asked for money, and this was a lot. He hoped the Feds hadn't suggested that he needed some money. He remembered his mother being a little strict about money with him. He also wondered where they had gotten that money if they were refugees now. He desperately wondered if they would be able to move to the US or if they would stay in Nepal.

Something wasn’t being said in the piles and piles of pictures and paper, and the letter, something strange that was hovering around his mind, an uncertainty and a worry, and something slightly sinister slipped into his thoughts.

_What did the US agent tell them about me and how much of that letter they sent was dictated to them to write and how much was actually their own words?_

He decided he was going to take all this to S.H.U.S.H. and trust in Jay Gander Hooter to help him figure out just how much Dalton MacArthur was actually helping, and not controlling, his contact with his parents, and then put everything but the money back into the envelope so he could sleep.

And this time, he slept, and as luck would have it, fairly well. Sometimes all he needed was a mystery to get his mind back into its natural ‘rest and re-energize’ mode. Tomorrow he was going to check out of the hospital.

Darkwing Duck was going hunting.

\----------

“Here you are, he’s all yours…”

A crying form in an orange jumpsuit was being tossed, thrown, flung into the room with him, landing on the floor in a savage heap.

“Now, hold on, wait a minute!” Fenton jumped to his feet, horror stricken as the bandaged and bawling figure rolled over, revealing his rodent face. “I’m in solitary!”

“We don’t have room for solitary,” Warden Chalmers snapped. “If you can get him to drop his new Schizo act and behave maybe we’ll put him out with the rest of the crazies and let you have your own room again.”

Before he could comment, that yes, Megavolt had actually been repeatedly diagnosed schizophrenic in the past, the door slammed shut.

_This entire place is run by clowns with too much control and no oversight...totally corrupt!_

“I wish they would all stop SCREAMING!” Megavolt’s voice started low, and then suddenly rose to a shrieking height on the last word, holding his burnt and bandaged _hands_ over his burned and bandaged _ears_. “Arrrgh would everyone just SHUT UP!”

“Nobody is talking to you, it's just us in here,” Fenton scrambled to try and get a proper grip on the severely injured man, lifting him with both arms and laying him on the only cot. “You should not have been transferred from the hospital so soon.”

“You’re telling me?” Megavolt was still covering his ears with his hands, his face looking pained, severely stricken. “They operated on my ear, see?” he lifted a bandaged hand, and Fenton gaped.

The bandages on the operated ear were thick with brown infection.

 _Yuck,_ he thought, then said, “You should have been transferred to the prison infirmary. How much pain are you in?”

“Oh, just about much pain as you would expect for having the entire city’s voices in your HEAD!”

Fenton rolled his eyes, but then Megavolt grabbed him and pressed their faces together, the rat’s fetid breath rolling up into his billed nostrils. The man severely needed to brush his teeth.

“I’m not crazy, duck!” he said and threw Fenton back again. “When Darkwing kicked me into the radio tower, an energy signal from the radio tower’s rooftop generator was sent back, through my body, into my experimental radio signal enhancer, and back through me again in a continuous loop. Somehow the signal boosting powers of the radio tower and my device were transferred to me. I can hear radio signals! But there’s too many, I can’t block them out!” He covered his ears again. “And what’s worse, my sense of hearing has increased exponentially. I can hear what people are saying on the other side of the prison. Why the hell does Bushroot need a box of greeting cards for?”

“He’s been buying them to send to Negaduck in Solitary,” Fenton said. “Don’t ask me why, Bushroot seems to think the two of them have...what is the word for it? A _thing_.”

“Oooooohhhh,” was all Megavolt had to answer to that. “Well...that’s news to me. Oh my GOD! It’s soaps week in _La Canarda_!! Six straight days of soap operas in Spanish!!!!! What worse torture could exist?”

Again the man was pressing his bandaged hands tightly to his ears, and probably causing damage to his already injured ear. Fenton rolled his eyes, got up, and stalked over to the door. He banged out ‘shave and a haircut’ on the door, and a momentary shuffle of feet outside told him he’d actually caught a useful shift. Thank goodness.

The door opened an inch. Megavolt was watching this in confusion.

“Larry, Curly or Moe?” said the guard.

“Larry for now, we’ll see what else later.”

“One moment…”

Another shuffle, a new guard took his place.

“What do you need?”

“Two extra strength aspirin for Megavolt, a bottled water for both of us, I’m not drinking out of the same glass as him, and an appointment for him with the prison doctor, and don’t tell me those second and third degree burns just heal themselves overnight, he should have never been brought here so soon.”

“Fine, but if any Moe catches on, you’re in trouble, you know that?”

“I can deal…”

The door closed, and Fenton went back over, noting that Megavolt shuffled over and made room for them both to sit on the cot.

“What was that all about?”

“You know prison slang enough by now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I was never in with the guards, ever. What’s a Larry?”

“A Larry is a fetcher, you know, ‘go get this’, ‘talk to this guy’,” Fenton was extremely pleased that he knew all this. “A Curly will have your back, if you need protection from anyone who might be following you for a fight. Moe is shorthand for the Warden, or the senior staff, any of them, the big shots, basically the ones who don’t take bribes. But I got a couple of them blackmailed.”

And technically, he was certain the system for bribing guards worked differently in other places. The terminology and the way of communicating probably differed in those places.

“How did you get in with the guards anyways? Mister…”

“Crackshell.”

“Oh...Oh that guy!” Megavolt was alarmed. “Hey aren’t you getting out soon?”

“I wish,” Fenton hadn’t heard anything from the prison gossip, from the prisoners who had access to radios. He had a radio in his cell, but he’d been in this room for a few days now, and still nothing. “At any rate, have you ever watched Shawduck Redemption?”

“Huh,” Megavolt considered. “I’ve read the book.”

“I’m basically the Andy Duckfresne of this place,” he said. “In my work as an accountant, I learned a few things about cooking the books. I’ve basically been doing the bookwork for the guards, just like in that movie, well, the few willing to let me see their expense sheets with a McDuck lawsuit being held over my head,” he rolled his eyes. “I got blackmail on a couple of them from my time as Gizmoduck, and a few are just fanboys who believe me when I say I was framed.”

“Oh geez,” Megavolt rolled his eyes. “If you were framed, then I can sneeze the national anthem.”

“You don’t think so?” Fenton felt his stomach turn to acid, and Megavolt kicked his leg out.

“No offense buddy, but I watched Lockjaw’s tapes, they weren’t doctored, you were definitely on camera saying you dropped the bomb…”

“Ball...nobody asked what I had failed to do, just that I had failed at something…” Fenton turned to look at the door, quietly. “Damned if they will ever admit to it out loud to anyone. I never said I’d touched the bomb in any way. It was an assumption they made.”

“How much of that is true and how much of it is you just trying to get on my good side?” Megavolt asked. “Because seriously, I don’t care if you dropped a bomb on a bunch of whiny S.H.U.S.H. agents and suburbanites. I didn’t have family living there.”

“It's a strange thing isn’t it, not many people here did,” Fenton looked over at the window. “Why are the inmates in this prison, who are almost entirely supervillains, almost entirely from the ghetto?”

“Or from Duckburg…I think Bushroot had a relative there, can’t be too sure though, its been ages since I talked to any of them.”

A sudden knock on the cell door, and Fenton got up. There was bottled water, the two aspirin, and a squashy medical kit with limited supplies and a note from the doctor with the date and time of his coming visit to see Megavolt.

“You see that,” said Fenton, as he pulled a roll of bandages out of the package, the easy rip kind that couldn’t be used to strangle anyone, thank god. “I got your back. So please don’t kill me in my sleep.”

“I wish I could sleep,” said Megavolt, swallowing the pills and barely sipping the water all, instead using it to clean up his ear, leaning over the sink and pouring the clean filtered bottled water into the infection. Then he poured more water into the bottle from the sink tap...rinse and repeat.

Fenton made it his considerable goal never to drink from that sink ever again.

_For a man that emits electricity from every pore he certainly has no aversion to water._

After a pause Megavolt added, “Thanks...Giz.”

Fenton just frowned a bit.

“Fenton please. Or Crackshell if you prefer to be formal. I’m just...not that guy anymore…”

“If you say so…AH! THEY WILL NEVER SHUT UP!”

Megavolt pointedly covered his ears again. Fenton wanted to curl up and cry. This was who he would be stuck with for who knows how many more days. It was absolutely not fair.

\--------

“Who knew one object could be so hard to find?”

Drake had been wandering the Asian district in feign hope that one of these little Asian grocery and convenience stores would have the all important item in question. But first he had taken the bus to his tower to get himself a clean change of clothes and his backpack, which he stuffed with everything he owned just in case someone did decide to rob his tower while he was gone. And then he had gotten back on the bus for almost an hour of wandering in search of the elusive item he was searching for.

_I don’t have enough money to keep catching the bus. Please let me find it soon!_

His feet were hurting, and he wasn’t sure he was going to find Honker an abacus before the youth went in for his next surgery, which was likely going to be tonight, or maybe in the early morning. That was the worst feeling in the world, knowing the kid would be desperate for a mathematical gizmo or computer device of some kind to play with during his recovery and knowing he’d be stuck with rubber ball physiotherapy and medicated to the nines. The hospital tablets were for therapy use only, and Honker only had his for a couple hours for running the programs the therapists allowed children in the ward access to. It was damned frustrating for a sixteen year old to be limited to programing designed for kids under ten. 

Crossword books and coloring books weren’t any more interesting to Honker than they were to any other teenager, but Binkie seemed to enjoy doing them so while he was browsing the dollar stores in this part of town he had picked a couple up for her, and two books of brainteasers and math problems he hoped were interesting enough for Honker’s brain.

But probably not. He’d probably be doing them himself.

He had bought Honker a calculator fairly soon after the boy had been sent to the hospital. A dollar store calculator had been easy enough to buy, not expensive. But he knew it wasn’t good enough. Not nearly good enough. Drake wished he had a thousand dollars to buy the boy a laptop computer. A supercomputer with every advanced programming or scientific application he could ever want!

An abacus was what the boy asked for, he knew this, but Honker was disconnected and isolated without internet, or access to anything more than a tv and some educational children’s apps for entertainment. Honker was a young genius, who wanted a distraction, as well as something to do with his hands to help him regain motor skills and coordination lost when his spine shattered. If he got feeling back in his left hand he’d be able to hold more than a pencil. Maybe he’d be able to get out of bed and be mobile, using his two arms to get around. He’d not be bedridden anymore.

But the boredom was probably killing him more than anything else. And all the Muddlefoots’ money went into hospital bills. Or for paying for food, and the electricity and water hookups for the camper where Herb and Tank lived, and where Binkie sometimes lived. She half lived at the hospital with her younger son now. She barely ever saw her husband and older son. And Tank lived mostly in a tent because the camper was too cramped, it wasn’t designed for more than a couple of people sleeping in, and it was meant to be pulled around by a car. A car which Herb no longer had the ability to drive.

_If Tank can get that driver’s license, and get work...that would be amazing. It really would._

But it was hard to think about Tank leaving high school early to get a job. He would never have encouraged it before, but for Tank, whose football scholarship depended on him being in passing grades, there was no future now. His brother had been his tutor, technically had been doing most of his homework. Without him Tank would fail high school. A job would be a good fall back, and it was the summer. So maybe he could work and then go back to school in the fall?

_I’m a dreamer. And I’m wasting time here, I need to find that abacus. It's almost lunch...ugh. I need Gladstone’s luck. He’s in another meeting with that CEO. Just how many meetings do you need with another company for one business deal?_

He knew nothing about the business world. He did know he was dithering about in the wrong part of the Asian section of town. This was the place where you could buy fish and rice, not office supplies or rare knick knacks.

Feeling like he was grasping at straws, he sent a friendly text to Gladstone asking for luck with his shopping, and went to go find lunch, bemoaning his already depleted wallet. The bus fare had been pretty bad as it was, but if he didn’t have enough for the abacus when he did find it, it would be an utter failure.

_And this cash has got to last me a little while too. Although, that job Jay Gander offered...well hopefully I can start soon._

He’d left a message with the phone number that had been in the white envelope and was waiting anxiously for the reply. He’d probably have to go to the library and print up his resume anyway, but he was hoping they would just give him the job without needing an interview.

Lunch was as cheap as he could get, a styrofoam bowl of noodles in broth at a kiosk in the market, and he found himself saving everything that was saveable, and was embarrassed by it. The metal can from his coo-coo cola could be traded in for change. The hospital was collecting the tabs from cans to send to a charity that used them to make wheelchairs, so that would be saved. He found the plastic bag from his lunch would be reusable and kept that.

His parents had saved everything when he had grown up. And it occurred to him that he hadn’t tried his home street yet. So that’s where he headed. On foot because he didn’t want to spend any more of his money on the bus, and it was a long trek, but one that became more and more familiar as he travelled.

Perhaps it had been the recent contact from his family, but this part of town brought back strange memories from his childhood. His old apartment building, festooned with clothes draped over balcony rails and festive flags of various nationalities. One painful memory was of his mom dragging him along the street towards this apartment building, swearing in Tibetan because she’d caught Drake with Lamont, and they had been picking pockets. It had been humiliating. He hadn’t sat down at dinner that night either, and he couldn’t remember any other time his parents had smacked him, not for anything. They were infinitely the most patient, kindest parents in the world. Stealing was their limit.

He winced at the memory. But another memory hit him as he turned a familiar corner and he stopped.

This had once been his parents restaurant. The years had barely changed it, and it still had the same owner, the guy he had sold it to when he had become Darkwing Duck full time. He could smell the familiar smells of the food he had grown up with, coming from the doorway, but wondered if peeking into the restaurant and saying ‘hi’ was a good idea. He wondered if that man would remember him, his parents' old friend.

He decided that this was probably not the time for a reunion. He had a gift to locate. He took his feet away from the restaurant and down towards the part of town his parents, and everyone else, had called ‘Swindlers Row’. It was mostly pawn shops, counterfeit stores and knock off shops, a few hair salons. And a few cheap asian import spots. He stumbled, with luck, into a shop he had never at all seen the inside of in his life. Rows of shelves were stuffed with mini Buddha statues, and statues of Guan Yin, various other gods and characters of Chinese and Buddhist mythology, vases and wooden furniture. It was an imports store, but Drake would eat his own feathers if half these items were as genuine as they claimed to be. Most of them were replicas, cheaply made replicas. He approached the man at the counter, not wanting to waste time.

“I need an abacus,” he said, feeling like he was acting like the Western yuppie, completely confused with Asian culture, going into the wrong store entirely to buy something that was considered office or school equipment in Asia.

To his utter surprise, the man considered for a moment, then pulled one out from under the counter. It was an abacus. His own. Drake found himself haggling the man into selling him his personal abacus, and was eventually relieved to learn that the man hadn’t ever actually used it himself, it had come with the store when he’d bought it, and been under the counter there for years.

Twenty dollars lighter, and with enough money for return bus fare, Drake left the Asian part of town with a lightness to his step and feeling that luck was really with him today.

_Gladstone Gander, eat your heart out!_

\-------

Drake arrived at Honker’s room just as the hospital staff were preparing him for surgery.

“Oh Drake, you’re here, Launchpad is on his way,” Binkie got to her feet.

“That’s good to hear,” he gave her a quick hug, and sidled up next to the boy, who was watching with misery as his arm was hooked up with an iv line. “Hey Honker, I have some things for you…”

He boredly pulled out the books of brainteasers, letting him look them over, then turned to give Binkie a huge wink, before slipping the abacus out quietly from the bag and slipping it into his lap under the book.

Honker lifted the book in confusion and his expression lit up like a thousand stars, the biggest smile taking over his face.

“Aw you found one sir!” Honker said. “I didn’t think you could! I was thinking you’d have to go online!”

Drake felt his own pride and relief were showing on his face as Honker used his one working hand to start making calculations with quick little clacks of the beads. Drake worked out a few problems in the brainteasers book as Binkie worked on a crossword, and they were all happily doing something when Launchpad and Monique came in, the latter looking apologetic and complaining about traffic.

Launchpad spent a few minutes asking Honker, without any understanding, about the new abacus, before more nurses finally came in to take Honker in for surgery. He gave them all a brave nod before being rolled away.

Silence descended. Drake realized it was almost dinner time. 

“We need to get back,” Launchpad said apologetically. “Binkie, when was the last time you went home?”

“Well...I went by the camper on Tuesday to drop off some of my laundry, pick up a fresh change of clothes, made some lunch for Herb...”

Drake stared. It had been a week.

“We can pick your whole family up tomorrow to come back,” Launchpad countered. “You need to go home for awhile, get some rest.”

“Thank you Launchpad,” Binkie. “That would be nice…” she frowned. “I just don’t want him to wake up after surgery, and not find me here."

“He’ll be in for several hours,” said Drake, checking his watch. “Binkie you don’t want to sit in this hospital room alone all night. You need a fresh change of clothes, and some rest…and maybe have a meal with Herb and Tank, spend some time with them. They miss you.”

“Well…”

“Drake can drive you,” Launchpad pulled the keys to Drake’s car out of his pocket. “And drive you back in the morning with Herb and Tank. I bet Honker will be happy to see everyone together.”

Binkie was almost convinced.

 _She’s practically lived in this room. She needs a change of scenery and a chance to breathe._

Drake caught the keys when Launchpad tossed them to him, and Monique helped Binkie gather her belongings, leaving Drake to make sure Honker’s things were all accounted for in his room's side tables. A nurse was waiting in the hallway to talk to Binkie and let them know when they could come back, and they pointedly left as a group, making sure the Hospital staff knew she was just going home to get some rest and would be back in the morning with her family. They were fine with that!

Binkie cried the moment she and Drake were alone in the car, but he didn’t say a word. He noted that the tank was full and all his stuff was still in the glove compartment. His stuff being a box of kleenex and the usual car stuff, his license and registration, that sort of thing. He gave a wave to Launchpad and Monique in their own truck as they sped away, and found himself wondering for a moment, getting his bearings, and thinking for a moment if leaving now was the right thing for any of them to do. He turned to look at the drawn, careworn and drained face of Binkie Muddlefoot, trying to compose herself and wiping her face with the kleenex, and then apologizing for her lack of composure. He reached out to offer her a hug, and she finally accepted it, and broke down again into a real good cry on his shoulder.

Yes, it was time to leave. No, they were not leaving a sixteen year old alone in a hospital. They were rescuing his mother from one.

“Binkie Muddlefoot,” said Drake, pulling away from her finally to get his seatbelt on and then turn the key. “You are the strongest woman I have _ever_ met,” he said, and added silently. _Or my name isn’t Darkwing Duck._

In his humble opinion, nothing, nothing on earth, was stronger than a mother. 


	16. Lets Get Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for late update, I started this story for July's Camp Nanowrimo and I was fairly burnt out by the end, but hoping to get back to writing and updating this story again.

Drake Mallard was bone tired when he and Binkie Muddlefoot finally made it to the Muddlefoot trailer. Traffic had been awful, bumper to bumper, and Drake just didn’t have the energy or patience for people who lived for honking their horns. The allotment land was never dark, the tent city was covered in people with camping lanterns, flash lights tied to tent posts, and jury rigged lamps plugged into emergency generators. The haphazardly parked cars were difficult to navigate, wires and extension cords criss crossed everywhere as people found ways to power their desperate need for electricity, and the people themselves milled around in the space between the tents, watching them as they drove bye, waiting for them to park...waiting for an opportunity, their moment to strike…

He could hardly blame them. After having their lives torn apart, their homes destroyed, loved ones killed, and being left here in this refugee state for months without much support, many of them had fallen into theft and criminal activity. Despite the state of emergency the city had been put into, despite other states offering money and supplies, the situation here was still dire. Supplies were sent, but where they had actually ended up were warehouses and were often being distributed in miserly slow fashion due to the traffic.There was only one road to this plot, a haphazardly constructed road that crossed over one corner of the rather expansive swamp.

The Muddlefoots were lucky to even have their own trailer. The emergency trailers that the government had promised had been delayed, and delayed, and delayed, in another state, arriving in small numbers at a time due to traffic. No wonder private companies like Glomgold Industries were donating supplies. They could take the less populated route of bringing things in by helicopter. Drake had spotted, as he was pulling into the camp, a Glomgold industries trailer set up next to a large pile of recently arrived lumber and sheet metal under large orange tarps. It would be raided by people very soon, they definitely would need somebody overseeing the construction project, or it would fall to thieves.

_I just hope there isn’t some underlying nefarious reason for the generosity on display here. I certainly hope Glomgold, and F.O.W.L. aren’t using the crisis to benefit in some way…_

He knew, even after the thought crossed his mind, that something nefarious had to be going on, but there was no way to know what. He turned in to park beside the trailer, and Tank Muddlefoot immediately climbed out from his survival tent to greet them.

“Hey Mister Mallard,” Tank stood almost double the height now to Drake, having taken after his rather bulky father, but also having put on considerable muscle due to his interest in sports. “Better not leave the car here, they’ll steal the tires.”

“I’m spending the night,” Drake admitted, as Binkie made her weary way inside.

Tank immediately moved to help his mother carry her belongings up the cement brick they were using as a stair step into the trailer. Drake could hear her greeting Herb and telling him about Honker. He decided to wait for a moment to give her privacy, and went back to make sure all the windows were locked in the car, and decidedly pulled out his backpack from the back seat, mentally not sure his car was fully safe even when it was locked. He wasn’t leaving his belongings for even a second.

“I’ll watch the car for you tonight, but I got a job interview in the morning,” Tank offered, and held the door open for him.

“Oh awesome!” Drake mentally added a stop for Tank to his list of places to drive the next day besides the hospital. “Where at?”

“The big mine…at 9 am.”

“Great!” Drake mentally screamed but kept his tone civil and positive. “I’ll drop you off after dropping your parents off at the hospital. I might be busy at the library after but if you need a lift.”

Internally, he was forcing himself to keep his bill shut tight about Glomgold. Work was work, even if Tank’s new employer might actually be working for F.O.W.L, he couldn’t do anything about it, and shouldn’t, not if the Muddlefoots were ever going to get back to the normal way of life they had once enjoyed.

“I’ll be fine, I have the bus schedule,” the lad actually pulled the squashy folded booklet out of his pocket“And some change.”

Drake fumbled around in his pocket for a moment to find some extra change to hand him, just in case. Tank had been responsibly following through with finding work in every capacity and Drake felt pride filling him for Herb and Binkie.

 _A bomb dropping on your family is a rather hard way to learn that lesson,_ Drake thought.

“Hopefully they’ll let me work there without a driver’s license, but I’m going in for the written test on Friday,” he looked nervous. “I really want to work with the big machines. The bucket miner just looks amazing.”

Drake laughed. This was a much younger Tank Muddlefoot talking now, the Tank that still enjoyed putting cherry bombs under garbage cans and terrorizing his neighbors with a fully loaded water bazooka.

“Just be careful, that Glomgold isn’t the most honest businessman.”

“I’ll be careful...sir,” Tank grinned. “You be careful too! You look like you’ve seen a lot of action.”

“Oh, well,” Drake shrugged. “Megavolt...you know…”

“We saw you, on TV,” Tank laughed. “We were damned glad to see you at work protecting the city again.”

Drake smiled, feeling a little embarrassed, and finally followed Binkie into the trailer.

“Hey Drakemeister, your just in time,” Herb Muddlefoot said, pointing with his cane towards the television set across from him. “Pelican’s Island is just about to come on the t.v. there…”

The patriarch of the Muddlefoot family was looking rather tired, despite doing almost nothing all day. He also had a very noticeable rasp to his breathing that Drake was quite fearful about. He almost never left the trailer anymore, and was mostly laid up with his useless foot. Unable to work, or walk very far, or drive a car, Herb Muddlefoot spent most days sitting on the sofa attached to the trailer wall, with his foot sat on a pillow on top of a cardboard box. The box was probably filled with items they had saved from their old house, which were piled up everywhere, making the trailer feel like a crowded hoarder’s mess. The family TV was perched precariously on a pile of books and magazines, a major fire hazard that Drake put on his list of things to fix. A table for the TV, and finding places for all the Muddlefoot’s belongings.

 _Maybe I can store some of it in my tower for them, now that it's actually mine again,_ Drake wearily slumped down on the padded seat beside Herb, and watched as the opening credits for Herb Muddlefoot’s favorite program came on with their light hearted sea shanty refrain.

A strange joy filled him at hearing the familiar show and seeing the familiar characters fumble their comedic way onto the screen. He had really needed this. It was so quintessentially normal to watch TV on the couch. So basic, so suburban, so _Muddlefoot_ , to just sit here watching Pelican’s Island. Binkie came out of the bedroom from unpacking, with a freshly packed suitcase which she sat by the door, determined to return to the hospital and stay with her younger son no matter what. Then, to his utter horror, she began going through the cupboards and pulling out cans.

“Binkie,” Drake said. “Sit down for awhile, we’ll order pizza or something…”

“No, no I need to do something,” she said, and pulled out a cooking pot. “Cooking calms me down.”

“She’ll be all right there Drake,” said Herb. A commercial break had come on. “Hey tell me about the bad guy you beat up, we saw you on the t.v...”

Drake slowly relayed what happened, and he vaguely was aware that Tank was sitting in the still open trailer door, watching the car and sitting with his family enjoying the story at the same time.

“Well don’t that beat all,” Herb said, with a laugh. “Gotta get your rest then, stay here for the night.”

“I can’t imagine how you get the energy for all that,” said Binkie, sounding stressed.

“He’s so brave, is why,” said Tank, and then he ducked out again, closing the door behind him so Drake couldn’t correct him.

Tank’s respect for Drake Mallard had been elevated by boatloads once he realized and put two and two together about who his neighbor was. He’d found out before the bomb, likely figuring out from spying on his brother when he went next door to hang out with Gosalyn and seeing Gosalyn and Honker on TV with Darkwing Duck. He hadn’t said anything, he had covered for his brother from time to time. Happy to be involved. Who could have known Tank Muddlefoot was one of his biggest fans?

 _If that kid knew how monumentally frightened I am every single time I went into battle,_ he crossed his legs, and found his eyelids were drooping. _Well, I’m not going to correct him. He’s not really a kid anymore either._

“So then,” Drake put his arms behind his head and decided to ask the question on his mind. “Tank has a job interview with the Glomgold mine?”

“Yeah, tomorrow,” said Herb, and Binkie started humming, a good sign that her mood had improved. “Things will be alright from him, once he has work, maybe he’ll have a place of his own…”

 _Unlikely,_ Drake looked around the trailer and mentally sighed, _More likely he’ll be taking care of his parents and brother for the rest of his life now._

Feeling his considerable exhaustion finally catching up to him he slumped down a little and found himself leaning into Herb Muddlefoot’s big round shoulder. Herb didn’t say anything about it, nothing at all, just chuckled at something funny Pelican had done. Herb had seen every single episode several times, and he always laughed. Drake knew this.

How? How had he become so comfortable and close to this family? What barrier in his mind had broken that he had come to care for them as if they were his own?

_I don’t have Gosalyn to take care of anymore. And Launchpad is starting a family of his own. I need someone to take care of, a family, or else I’m lost. They are my surrogate family now. I need someone to take care of, and they need someone to help them. But eventually, I’ll be the one who is simply hanging around, a neighbor again. I pray one day they become that independent again, that I become a hanger on._

He closed his eyes...and fell immediately to sleep, feeling completely safe. Someday, maybe, he would have a family of his own again. Someday. For now, the Muddlefoots would have to do.

\------------ 

Gladstone Gander was more than ready to admit to himself he had gotten in way over his head. He swallowed heavily and clutched his golf club tightly in one hand, the other going back under his jacket in search of the gun there to ensure that yes, he was still armed, thank you, no he hadn’t lost it whilst flying across the clearing to land here on the ground. Glomgold was grinning like a loose cat in a pet store, his caddie beside him had a gun pointed at Gladstone, looking lazy and enjoying himself readily. With his metal bill and smoking jacket Steelbeak was basically, to his mind, like a supervillain taken out of a James Pond movie. Gladstone Gander now despaired over his own caddie. His ball? Sitting on top of a massive mining machine’s cab.

This was not what he would call a peaceful game of golf. Glomgold had set up a course that had spanned the entire open pit mine, and it was a doozy, with pitfalls, slurry pond water hazards all amidst the normal everyday working of the actual mine. It was not what you would expect to deal with when asking for a friendly game of golf. Then again most golfers weren’t FOWL agents holding a SHUSH agent hostage. 

“You have to rescue your caddie and not lose your ball in the pit to win this round, and the game,” Glomgold was advancing towards him, and so were his men with their guns. “Remember, you have play it where it lands.”

_As if I’ve never played a game of golf before, I just went seventeen rounds already..._

The large seemingly endless open mine was sprawled out behind him, the bucket digger scooping up earth unconcernedly around his caddie tied up to the flagpole on the 18th hole. The massive machine was coming perilously closer to where he himself was standing.

It was a beautiful machine, he had to admit, bright blue, and German made, and taller than the money bin, certainly it was longer than the bin was tall, with a massive bucket wheel for digging and an integrated conveyor belt along the arm, and supports for the crane. It swivelled, and rolled, and had flattened this terrain in no time flat and it was still going. It was an industrialist's wet dream. And he was going to be accidentally crushed by this thing, if he didn’t play his game just right.

He didn’t know how he had gotten this far, honestly. His luck was always a little more iffy in its results when he actually put effort into using it. Feeling emboldened, Gladstone decided to forgo the gun.

“Play it where it lands,” he said, and turned, just as the bucket digger was scooping up behind him and dauntlessly jumping into the chewing grasp of the massive machine.

Ferris wheels could learn a thing or two from this thing. He felt himself hauled violently around unceremoniously in the bucket with the churned up earth and dumped unceremoniously on to the machine’s conveyor belt, and had to scramble not to be buried alive under mounds of soil and rock in the bucketfuls that followed. He found his footing and scrambled up the sides of the conveyor arm and began climbing up towards the cab just as the machine began to turn again.

He should have swung into the cab and dealt with the driver first, but his timing was a little off, even he would have to admit it. Glomgold’s nephew seemed to be having massive amounts of fun driving this thing, uncaringly swirling around in circles below Gladstone as he clambered up onto the cabin and desperately tried to position his club for a proper shot that would land him somewhere near his caddie. He was lucky that the machine was too big to swing very fast, but damn was it vibrating, and the ball was slowly moving sideways and would roll right off the cabin if he didn’t take his shot.

 _Thwack!_ He cheered, and then found himself to jump, a hundred feet down into the pit, passed the massive treads of the wheeling machine and down to the earth floor, landing gracefully for all that his nice golfing outfit was sooty with dirt.

The ground was stable and severely flat by so many huge machines rolling over it all day long packing it down. Sizing up his next shot was hard, he could feel the massive machine behind him, turning to make another attempt to scoop him, and his caddie looked a rather sorry sight with explosives rigged on a timer to go off if he didn’t diffuse them. He wouldn’t have to worry about the digging machine if Gladstone didn’t make it to him in time.

 _Luck be my lady,_ he actually closed his eyes for the shot, and as the ball zinged through the air he dodged sideways, the bucket wheel coming down and grounding into the earth, throwing up massive amounts of debris and churning a big hole in the ground.

The ball smacked, dead center on his caddie’s chest, destroying the timer for the detonator and then falling into the 18th hole without pretext. Gladstone ran, wildly, as the digger arm was now rising again for the next strike.

“Come on!” he grabbed his caddie, 18th hole flag and all, and then carried him, flailing, for the wall of the pit.

He couldn’t stop to breathe, untying the ropes as fast as he could.

“I’m so glad Jay Gander was able to send someone to rescue me,” said Derrick Blunt, looking infinitely relieved. “And this little game has been very intriguing to watch, but I think we’re about to have big trouble…”

“You said it.”

The bucket wheel came down, but instead of avoiding it, the two S.H.U.S.H. comrades, now finally reunited, jumped arm and arm into the whirling buckets of the machine.

The look in the eyes of Flintheart Glomgold’s eyes when he saw Gladstone Gander, with Derrick Blunt, standing on top the cab of his prized mining machine with the 18th hole flag raised over their heads, would be something none of them would ever forget.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Blunt, looking suddenly frantic.

“Hold up,” said Gladstone, feeling confident. “Glomgold is a man of his word when he makes a wager. You were just icing on the cake, he has to pay me the wager we agreed on.”

“What exactly did he agree to give you?” Derrick Blunt asked, looking a little testy as Glomgold and Steelbeak climbed up the machine to join them.

The old timer had every right to be impatient, he was supposed to be retired and kept getting dragged back into the field. And he was probably annoyed that he wasn’t the reason Gladstone had come poking around, just a lucky circumstance. Derrick Blunt was highly familiar with how Gladstone Gander’s luck worked, and it was always to the advantage of one person, really, Gladstone himself.

“Glomgold had to tell me his plan,” Gladstone admitted. “As to why he’s donating so many supplies to the allotment camp.”

“And I always keep my bargains,” Glomgold had heard this last bit as the pair approached, none of their cronies to be found, just the four men on the cab, and Glomgold’s nephew still inside it. “Fair and square, as your uncle would say.”

Derrick edged closer to him, in the off chance he reneged on his deal, and Steelbeak was still armed with his pistol. Gladstone gave Derrick a break and raised up the back of his jacket so the agent could take the weapon he was hiding there, silently cueing to him what to do. They had always worked rather well together, Derrick needing almost no help with catching onto Gladstone’s quick strokes of luck and picking up on silent signals. Derrick was a master spy, Gladstone a master of luck. It was a shame their personalities didn’t mesh.

“So, my plan is simple, and perfectly legal,” Glomgold humphed. “If the people in the allotment have housing and clean water already in the allotment, they won’t want to return to their old property, which means I can snatch it all up cheaply,” he put his hands on his hips. “And then I can expand my mining operation.”

“That is a very good plan, actually,” Gladstone put a hand to his chin. “You’ve already poisoned the pipes there...by accident of course.” he added, carefully. “The city wouldn’t have to relay pipes for the entire area…”

“Exactly. Now, you both have snooped too much into my business. Get going, and don’t show your beaks here again...though I’m always itchy for a game of golf…”

“Maybe another time,” Gladstone said. “At a more standard course…”

“I’ll show you to the gate,” Steelbeak said forcefully, and noted Derrick, now with the pistol. “No trouble…”

“No trouble…” Gladstone followed him, obediently, but still keeping one eye out for trouble. “No trouble at all.”

\---------------

Light in his eye. Noise, unending noise in his ears. He could feel a hand...a hand in his.

It was that Crackshell guy. Gizmoduck. Being so supportive of the injured villain he was sharing a cell with. Megavolt was highly suspicious.

“You’re right,” said the doctor, as he pointed his awful little flashlight into Megavolt’s eyes again. “They cleaned out the infection, but the underlying damage hasn’t healed properly and he has a secondary infection. He needs antibiotics, and these burns need to be redressed. The Warden is going to have a fit. They should _not_ have sent him back.”

“What about the voices in his head?” that was a guard to the side, the one who had brought the doctor from the infirmary. “Warden wants him to shut up about that.”

“I don’t think he’s faking it,” said the doctor. “There’s signs of a concussion, possibly damage…he needs a cat scan...but for now I’m going to take him to the infirmary, orders be damned. I don’t care how much it costs the prison to actually do my job. Here, you there help him,” he pointed to Crackshell. “Send a little more and I’ll put in a good word with the Warden...you’re looking after your fellow injured prisoners, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll be sure you...get my gratitude,” Crackshell ducked his head, but Megavolt knew he was rolling his eyes.

The obvious bribe request implied by the comment was clear. The new Warden hated everyone equally, and never took bribes from prisoners, Crackshell had told him, but did like to look good in front of his men, so the doctor would take the money and make sure the Warden heard only favorable things about Crackshell. Hopefully Megavolt would be left alone about the voices.

“Why are you being so nice to me anyways?” Megavolt said, as he leaned heavily on Crackshell for support, the two of them unsteadily moved towards the new part of the prison where the new offices and medical facilities had been built. “I’m a villain.”

A sort of familiar cough alerted him that they were being watched by one of the cells ahead on their path, a mirror being stuck out, at an awkward angle. He slowed their movement pointedly so the prisoner could catch their motion properly with the mirror.

“I’m a nice guy,” said the fallen hero idly, watching the mirror in concern. “I can’t help but help others.”

“Even in this place?” Megavolt countered, raising his voice pointedly so they could be heard, and for a moment, he saw a familiar face looking at them through the reflection of the mirror pointed towards him. “After what you went through?”

“I suppose you could say, after my own experiences, I now have much more sympathy for the devil.”

Megavolt and Crackshell were rewarded with a sinister chuckle from the mirror wielding prisoner as they passed his door, and Megavolt could feel all the hair standing up on his skin.

The devil was always watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bucket mining machine was so much fun to do research for. There are lots of kinds. But do a Google search if you want to see huge machines and perfer having a visual image of what you are reading about.


	17. Family Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild chapter appears! o_o
> 
> My appologies for the wait, I know I've been working on my Star Trek stuff a lot lately, I haven't forgotten about Darkwing Duck, I just needed to be in the right frame of mind, and Star Trek has really kind of taken over my life a lot lately.

Drake Mallard stumbled out of the trailer, blinking his eyes as light from the rising sun momentarily blinded him. He then saw Tank Muddlefoot with a lug wrench, tightening the bolts on his car’s wheels.

“Tank? What are you doing?”

“I hid your tires under the trailer last night,” said the youth, standing up after tightening the last bolt. “A few gangs were hanging around the place. Might have lost a hubcap...will double check…”

Drake moved out of the way so that Tank could crawl under the severely cluttered space under the trailer, and looked up into the sparkling early morning light. A smell of eggs frying was drifting over to him from a nearby tent, the family having pulled themselves out and were campfire cooking their breakfast. Drake turned to look up into the trailer longingly. He’d woken up on the couch, where he had been that night, where he had fallen asleep leaning on Herb Muddlefoot, and he had discovered that someone, probably Binkie, had put a blanket over him after he fell asleep. He had no idea where Herb had slept, and Binkie could barely fit on the bed that was stuffed with their salvaged personal belongings.

It was time to start putting a foot down.

“Tank,” he bent down to talk quietly to the lad, who stuck his head quickly out from under. “How much of the stuff your parents have been keeping could probably be sold?”

“All of it,” Tank said. “A lot of it. I...oh…” realization dawned over him slowly. “I get it…”

“They need their bed, they need money, and all this stuff is a fire hazard in such a small space. See what you can sell without them knowing about it, stuff that they won’t care at all about,” normally Drake wouldn’t tell anyone to go behind their parents backs but it was time to make some changes here. “You need the money.” 

Drake started the car just as Herb was making his unhappy way out the door, barely being able to squeeze through the trailer door. His leg was acting up again, and he really needed to get out more. Tank helped his dad into the car, took care of getting his mom’s suitcase into the trunk, and then locked up the trailer, tightly, actually winding a chain around the door handle and the front spoke. The trailer’s wheels had long since been stolen, and Drake firmly promised, as they pulled out of the drive, to do something about getting his resume put together for the undercover job, if only to make sure that Glomdgold’s flimsy gift of building supplies was actually used as intended.

\-----------

Gladstone Gander found himself stumbling late into the McDuck offices in St Canard and being stopped in his tracks by none other than his Uncle, who was surrounded by men Gladstone recognized from the board of directors.

“You’re late,” Scrooge said hotly. “And you missed work yesterday. I’m not impressed.”

Gladstone reminded himself that he couldn’t possibly tell his Uncle, and these men, that he was at gunpoint all day yesterday and that he had been in late night sessions with J Gander Hooter, updating him on what had happened at the mine. He had barely managed a coffee and donut take out on the way from the hotel after seeing his Uncle’s text, asking where he had gone.

“I’m confused,” said Gladstone, quickly buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. “You’re retired.”

“I’m here to make sure the SEC Tech deal I’ve been working on for over a year doesn’t fall apart!” Scrooge said, brandishing his cane. “Or have you forgotten that tonight is the big announcement?”

“No I haven’t forgotten,” Gladstone pulled his cue cards out of his pocket. “I’ve been memorizing the speech you wrote for me.”

“Good, and you’ll stick to the script,” the oldster turned, and Gladstone sighed, following his Uncle diligently, and feeling extremely useless at the same time. 

_I’m just a mouthpiece, aren’t I?_ He watched the board members all flock around Scrooge, so very happy that he had returned to join their ranks again. _I’m not really the CEO, I just play one on TV._

Nonetheless, the rest of the employees were not going to be stepping over his head. He gave instructions to his secretaries, asked after the reports he had requested the day before, and walked into his office.

Gladstone Gander really loved his office. It was nothing like a typical CEO’s office and he knew it. He’d chosen an open space floor plan, in an area right next to the huge front windows on the top floor, the brickwork and masonry exposed, the arched metal roof above hung with industrial lights. Two vintage drafting tables from the original school sat side to side acting as his workspace, allowing him plenty of room to put things in front of him. Comfy chairs were put near the corners by the book cases full of old drafting textbooks that he had kept there, hoping to evoke some of the original feelings of the space. A coffee maker and a lounge table rounded out that corner. A big black and white board duo provided a secondary work space for him to scratch out his thoughts. He’d mostly written inspirational quotes in chalk and scribbled ideas for his next book on the white board. A more traditional desk and chair stood in a different corner, and he’d put a vintage typewriter there, a beautiful piece of nostalgia he’d found here in town at a local press auction from a newspaper that had closed down its old offices and moved to a new building. He loved the thing, and had actually been typing poetry on it during his free time. The click-clacking mechanical sound of a typewriter could not be beat.

Scrooge was sitting there, having gravitated to the most ‘traditionally’ CEO workspace in the room, and was going through the drawers. Fortunately the board members knew where Gladstone liked to work and were standing in the center of the room looking embarrassed.

“Where is the account?” Scrooge said, poking through the piles of paper, and Gladstone sighed, sitting at his favorite spot by the window and pulling the SEC Tech account folder out of the drawer where he usually left it.

“I have it here…” he said quietly, trying to be respectful. “Uncle Scrooge...do you want me to give you a tour of my office?” 

“I don’t have time for sightseeing,” the man stomped over to him, and hopped up on one of the tall stools, completely ignoring the obvious beauty in the office environment, or the clever use of the drafting tables. “This workspace is cluttered…we need to clear it.”

_He’s going to be micromanaging me all day...I just know it…_

Gladstone gritted his teeth as he piled up his papers, admitting that most of them were his own ideas about the company logo designs and ideas he hadn’t been ready to show his Uncle. He blinked as his secretaries and aids brought into the room a rather large map of the city and county, on wheels, and Scrooge directed them to put it in front of the window, blocking out the light. 

“Uncle Scrooge, what…?”

“Never you mind! Just practice your speech and leave everything else to me. I should have known you’d be a mess!”

 _I should have known you’d ruin my day,_ he wanted to retort, instead he took his cue cards and slumped over to the soft lounge area and started to read.

_God...this speech. It's exactly what my Uncle would say..._

Scrooge was now going over the paperwork with the directors, who gave him brief, almost dismissing looks when they looked up at him, and Gladstone sighed.

_I am not the CEO. I am just here. And what the heck is that map about? I can’t work without light!_

Gladstone felt slow. Sluggish. As if he was a dinosaur and had devolved. And he was severely frustrated. This SEC Tech account wasn’t the only deal that Scrooge McDuck wasn’t really letting him be more than a spokesman for, and it was starting to build up in his stomach how little he actually knew about McDuck Industries.

He got to his feet and walked over to the map, clutching the cue cards in hand, even as his Uncle was going on about scheduling the next meeting with Shrife and his people, letting them know he would be there. His secretaries were on phones, frantic and defaulting to working directly for the man most obviously in control of the room.

_They’re my secretaries, dammit! I hired them! I worked hard to hunt them down and give them a paycheck I think is fair. If he even dares look at changing employee wages I swear I’ll have a fit!_

He bottled up his frustration and instead focused his intention on the map. With its strange colors and graphical squares he couldn’t put it out of his mind and he pushed the room and everything happening out of his head to examine the map very carefully.

A big square was surrounding one corner of the outer swamps and the empty lands nearest the swamp that Gladstone knew was currently being inhabited by the refugee camp.

 _Glomgold wants to buy Site Zero from the residents, charitibly providing them materials to build on the allotments, but the people don’t_ own _the allotments. If SEC Tech is the one who actually owns the land...where will they go when we…?_

Things started to connect and he felt his stomach twist and he took a few steps back. The swamp itself stood out like a sore spot, and Gladstone knew that before they had disappeared the boys had been working to protect the natural wetlands of Calisota, which included swamps like this. It was only one square corner of it, but even the tiniest construction in that area could cause devastating changes to the natural environment. The new highway overpass from the city to the allotments was proof positive; a lot of trouble with the locals had resulted from its construction. People lived in those swamps, simple people, who didn’t really own the swamp, but they had lived there for a very long time, maybe as far back as the founding of the country. His cousin Abner lived there. His way of life would be drastically affected by a wind farm in their backyard.

Gladstone heard his Uncle’s voice, demanding that a secretary get off the phone and pay attention, and that was the catalyst that broke the damn of emotions.

“All right!” Gladstone shouted, jerking around, and crunching the cue cards in his fist. “EVERYBODY OUT! I need to talk to _my Uncle_ in private, _immediately_!”

\-------

“Everything in this company has been controlled by you since you retired! Every tiny detail, I’m just a mouthpiece to you! Just a pretty face! And you tell me _nothing_ about how this company runs, just let me think I’m doing something while you do all the work!”

Scrooge had never heard his nephew so furious. He would have expected such a rant from Donald, but not the soft spoken Gladstone, and it was a very good rant as well.

“Did you know about this?” Gladstone finished, pointing to the map. “When you made this deal? Did you know where they where going to build the solar farms?”

“Nephew…”

“No, don’t interrupt me!” Gladstone said hotly. “People, refugees, with nowhere to go, are living on that allotment, and nobody has told them they are going to be homeless again!”

“That’s the government's fault,” Scrooge replied just as fiercely. “Shrife had already bid on the contract when the bomb was dropped. Nobody could have seen that coming. The government should not have sent the people to land they were setting aside for private contracts…”

“And yet we have gone on with this deal, knowing they were going to be building on that land,” Gladstone put his hands on his hips, and Scrooge felt his stomach turning to acid.

“The government offered the contract just before the bomb dropped, and I was already in negotiations with Shrife,” Scrooge said, putting his own foot down. “I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“You could have backed out of the deal!”

“Well I didn’t, so it's too late for that now!” Scrooge said, feeling his temper suddenly rising. “And don’t forget, dear nephew, this deal brings over 6000 jobs to this region, jobs those people in that camp are going to need to get back on their feet!”

“And what about the swamp? You know the boys were working to make that area a protected reservation!”

“The government was never going to agree to that,” said Scrooge, feeling stricken. “The boys wanted environmental conservation, and this was the compromise; green energy. We’ll manufacture it, but Shrife owns the technology, and the government will control where it goes, and that’s all that we can do!”

“What else haven’t you told me?” asked Gladstone suddenly. “Are there any other vipers in the McDuck Inc itinerary that I don’t know about?”

“Gladstone, now listen…”

“No YOU LISTEN!” Gladstone’s eyes got even more wild and even more fiery, and Scrooge’s breath caught in his throat. “You put me in charge, you told me to work, you dragged me into this song and dance and gave me cards and told me what to speak and say. Well I won’t be your puppet! I want to know _everything_ about how this company is run! Every deal, every shady secret, every backtable agreement, every contract, everything you’ve signed, agreed to or promised that affects this company going on into the future, all of it, or I promise you, I will _walk!_ ”

Gladstone looked so frustrated and monumentally angry now, that Scrooge suddenly had a double vision, a double vision of Gladstone Gander...and his mother.

Suddenly Gladstone was gone, the room was gone and Scrooge McDuck found himself over forty years in the past, in a small farmhouse kitchen and a small room where a beautiful blond woman was sitting when he entered the back screen door.

_“Scrooge McDuck!” said Daphne Duck in anger, rising to her feet, eyes fiery, her blue checkered dress skirt whirling around her ankles as she advanced on him. “You no account cheating, stealing, lying, double dealing, backstabbing sidewinder! Now you’ve gone and done it!”_

_She threw her chair sideways, her parents jumping backwards in horror from the fury and anger that they had probably never seen from their beautiful well mannered daughter._

_“You’ve gone and made me angry!” she said, and stamped her dainty foot on the ground. “And it isn’t right to make a lady angry!”_

_“Oh a lady now, are you?” he had responded without thinking._

_The heat on his cheek from the resulting slap, the anger in her eyes, not knowing that she was already pregnant and he had just come home to break up with her, to tell her that he had met his Goldie._

_“Get out of my house!!”_

Pain. Pain of that moment, of turning and walking out of that door, certain that he was going to marry Goldie instead. Making the biggest mistake that he had ever made in his life.

Gladstone was waiting for his response, visibly seething, his hair was her hair, and his eyes were her eyes and his anger was her anger, and those hands, on his hips, were hers.

“Gladstone Gander,” Scrooge said, gritting his beak hard. “You really are, without a doubt...” his stomach twisted and his chest constricted. “...just like your mother!”

And the younger man’s expression changed from anger to startlement as Scrooge broke down into bitter, miserable tears.

\--------

“What do we do now?”

Gladstone had brought his Uncle over to the lounge, letting him cry himself out, and picking out a nice dark black roast coffee to brew for him, like he knew his Uncle liked. The smell of coffee perking was now wafting temptingly through the offices, he was certain.

“Nothing,” said Scrooge, putting his hand onto his chest. “Leaving the contract now would only result in lawsuits, and so would telling people. We’re already in a lot of legal hot water from the audit.”

Gladstone felt rather guilty. This man had survived two heart attacks, this argument was not a good idea.

“We can’t just let them evict all those people now…”

“Gladstone, do you understand what a contract is? If we break that, if we tell anyone, it would be the same as breaking the law. There would be a lot of financial damage, and Shrife would probably take this deal to Glomgold instead.”

Gladstone winced, and looked out the window. And sighed deeply. This was the time, if there was any, to tell his Uncle the truth.

“I guess I haven’t been too honest with you,” said Gladstone. “There’s a reason I wasn’t here yesterday…”

He told his Uncle about the golf course, the bet, rescuing a SHUSH agent, and what he had learned.

“If we can find a way to leak the deal without them knowing we were the ones, we should do it. We can’t let Glomgold buy the people’s land and trick them into building houses on the allotments they don’t own. They need to know just how temporary their housing situation is.”

“It’ll be a big problem if the leak gets back to us…Both Shrife and the government wants to keep the deal secret until we’re ready to begin construction, otherwise a public outcry could cause the government to back out of green energy entirely.”

“We’ll just have to leave it up to luck,” said Gladstone, knowing his good luck always rather annoyed Scrooge McDuck thoroughly. “I know just who we leak it to as well…”

“Not Tom Lockjaw! That loudmouth would skewer us!”

“No, no, someone even better…”

\----------

Drake Mallard was just leaving the hospital, and making his way back to his car, when his phone started beeping.

“Drake here,” he said, and a familiar voice came over the other side.

“Hey Drake, it's Gladdy,” the voice was rather nervous, and Drake found himself fumbling with his car keys, a strange nervousness of his own taking control of his hands. “Listen, are you going to be busy tonight?”

“Probably,” Drake admitted. “The Muddlefoot’s son just got out of surgery and he’s not doing too well…so I have a lot of things I have to get done for them today….”

“Well, could you maybe try to do me a favor and watch the announcement tonight?”

“Announcement?” Drake closed the car door and fumbled with his seatbelt. “What announcement?”

_And why do I feel so nervous?_

“The McDuck Industries and Sec TECH deal I hinted might be happening. We’re making a live announcement later, I’m giving a speech. It's important…”

“I can try.”

“It's important…” he very firmly stressed. “Because the swamp and the allotments are a part of this deal. You need to watch it.”

Drake felt his nervousness had dissipated and he could feel the other man was tense. He wasn’t willing to give a specific reason, but Drake could tell he was very serious about him needing to hear this.

“The allotments?”

“Yes, and the swamp, listen, I have a meeting with Shrife and his people in ten minutes, we can talk more about it after the announcement, all right?”

“All right, you said seven?”

“Seven, it will be on all the major business networks, radio, that sort of thing…” Gladstone was walking, he could tell, he could hear the sounds of other people nearby. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? And Drake...you didn’t hear any of this from me, all right? Not a word.”

He ended the call and Drake sat back in his seat, staring at the screen of his phone, confused.

McDuck Industries was a manufacturing and mining corporation. SEC Tech invented and developed green technology.

_What would a deal between them have to do with the allotments and the swamp?_

A lot of scenarios came up suddenly in his head, and he knew he didn’t have enough information to construct a reasonable answer. He would have to watch the announcement, and hope that he could piece together what Gladstone had been trying to warn him about.

\----------

“Heyup Gladdy,” Abner Duck was brought into the office unceremoniously by security. “It took me awhile to convince them we were related, then Donald showed up and...hey...you look white as a ghost. Something going on?”

_It figures, just as I was starting to rewrite this speech, another problem…_

He had managed to convince his Uncle to let him write his own speech, he was a writer after all, and Scrooge was so pleased at his initiative and obvious need to be more a part of the company that he agreed instantly. Scrooge was now downstairs helping oversee the set up in their main presentation area. Gladstone had spared no expense on that room; it had a raised stage and viewscreen panels for video presentations, amphitheater seating and modern lighting and audio. It was going to be a big to do, with coffee and hors d'oeuvres being provided after.

Gladstone had finally had a free moment from preparing for the event to nibble the sandwich his secretary had brought him for lunch and work on the speech. There was a blob of mayonnaise on one of his cue cards that momentarily made him feel like a troglodyte. He was normally a much cleaner and tidier person, but everything was going wrong today and his nerves were completely on edge. Now Abner was here, one of the cousins he was the least closest to and who had been hanging around an awful lot since the boys disappeared. It wasn’t Friday the 13th was it?

“I’m all right,” said Gladstone, and he abandoned the cue cards. “Did you say Donald was here? Is he back from Europe already?”

“Yep, he’s here with his Daisy,” said Abner, and he walked over. “I was thinking I could help out in some way since I’m here? Family helps family...”

“Well,” Gladstone considered. “I could use some help cleaning my office. Uncle Scrooge took all the important stuff downstairs with him…”

Abner was an old hand at helping, but being a simple man, his way of cleaning the office involved just piling things up and putting them in random drawers. His secretaries would swear a little later, but Gladstone wanted to give his cousin some feeling of purpose.

He was probably going to be homeless soon. If not displaced by the noise of a wind farm, the destruction of the natural landscape, the deforestation to make room for solar panels. A forest was going to fall, a forest where the woodsman had built his life. It was ironic, because in their younger years Abner had worked as a lumberjack.

“Great work, it’s looking a lot tidier in here already,” Gladstone winced, spotting a paper sticking loose out of a drawer. “I need to finish my lunch. Find Donald and tell him I’m writing my speech, and maybe you can keep him out of trouble until I give it.”

“Aye got ye,” Abner laughed, looking unconcerned. “But do you need anything? You still look nervous…”

“I’m fine,” he told him, yet he was anything but okay.

In fact, he knew exactly what was wrong with him, and it was eating him alive. He couldn’t remember the last time he had appeared on stage in front of a large audience with cameras, but he had remembered freezing up, and then throwing up, and then vowing never to get up in front of an audience again.

_Oh god...not now...please not now…I can’t let Uncle Scrooge down, not now when he’s starting to respect me…_

“Gladdy ye don’t look fine to me…” Abner said, and Donald slipped into the door quietly, Daisy in tow.

“I…” Gladstone felt vertigo and looked down at his papers, and the last two cue cards he needed to transfer his speech two. “I’m just a little nervous about my speech that’s all.”

“Gladstone has a fear of public speaking,” Daisy said matter-of-factly, not realizing at all what a horrible thing she had just done.

“Oh,” said Abner, and his face lit up as if Christmas had come early. “Oh oh oh, what is this?”

“Abner, it's fine…” Gladstone gritted his teeth.

“Mister ‘high and mighty’ ‘better than everyone’ else has stage fright?” 

Gladstone mentally wished he could be anywhere else as he looked at anything but his cousins.

“Now, there’s no need to make fun of him,” said Daisy. “He needs our support.”

“Oh, no Daisy, you haven’t even been keen to how much this uppity city boy has held airs over me and my kind for years and years,” Abner huffed and pointed with his thumbs at him. “It’s right nice to see him taken down a peg once and a while…”

But Donald grabbed Abner, and made a slicing motion across his throat.

Scrooge walked into the room, and he stood there glaring.

“Well what are you all doing standing there?” said Scrooge, and he spotted Gladstone. “Have you done with your speech yet?”

“No!” said Gladstone, extremely relieved. “Please, everyone, just let me finish this!”

Donald gave him a sympathetic look, and turned to walk away, pulling Abner and the fussing Daisy with him. Gladstone desperately wanted to ask them both how the search had gone, but he knew the search was probably still ongoing.

Scrooge gave them all a sour look as they retreated and turned to look at him, and for a moment, he was disappointed.

“Why does Donald keep bringing his cousin with him?” said Scrooge, coming over to briefly look at the stack of cue cards.

He knew his uncle was itching to read the speech himself. But he had promised.

“Abner is family,” Gladstone said, though he was bitterly trying to swallow his sandwich and barely able to chew. “Family knows how to keep each other on their toes. Just be careful he doesn’t put two and two together about the swamp, you know he lives there...”

“He lays about there, squatting on government land,” Scrooge huffed. “There’s a difference between being a legal titled landowner relocated in a disaster and claiming rights to lands you don’t really own.”

Gladstone decided it wasn’t worth debating right now. His uncle was willing to leak the story for his sake, but he wasn’t going to change decades of long held beliefs overnight. He only hoped that this didn’t come back to bite them in their tail feathers later.


	18. Knight Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, I'm not sure this is exactly how I intended it, its pretty close and I'm quite proud of it. But I'm tired so I'm sorry if I didn't catch all the typos today. I usually proof read multiple times before and after posting, just to be safe...so I'll get to it again soon.

Drake Mallard leaned his head back in the driver’s seat of his car and banged uselessly on his car horn.

“Come on people, get a move on!”

He wasn’t feeling confident about his chances of getting home by seven. The traffic flow was zero, the honking was forming a symphony, and the overpass was packed bumper to bumper.

He should have taken the side roads to get to the allotments. Yes, it would have been a more winding circuitous route but he would have gotten there sooner. His resume was sitting next to him on the passenger side like an accusation.

_You spent half the day loitering in the library, but the Muddlefoots need you. Someone has to be there when Tank gets back from work. Herb is staying the night at the hospital. Maybe he’ll get his leg checked while he’s there...and maybe this car will sprout wings and I’ll fly home..._

With nothing for it, he looked out his window, and over the expanse of trees below. The overpass was literally suspended over part of the swampy outskirts of the city and then came down into the dark empty fields that had been turned into the muddy and overcrowded allotment. He peered out into the darkness for a moment, and fancied he saw the smoke rising from a small metal chimney, atop one of the chicken legged huts that the people of the swamps lived in. 

Swamp rats. That’s what people called them. Although they were really more just country folk who had been living in this backwater for nearly two hundred years, most people called them squatters. And that was one of the nicest things people called them.

_But they’ve been here almost as long as this city has been here...I know Duane counts himself the eighth generation in his family…_

Drake turned on the radio, found a station playing a song he recognized, and leaned back. Traffic just wasn’t moving. The likelihood that he would get back before seven was zero. Maybe he could catch the announcement on the radio?

A sudden increase of volume of car horns broke through his brain and he gritted his teeth.

“Gee, they sure are honking out there,” Drake said, rolling down his window and sticking his head out.

Out in the darkness, the long curve of the overpass and the rows of cars was a long line of lights going off into the distance.

That’s when he saw it...two forms climbing up over the side of the overpass, one tiny swamp dweller, and one really really large vicious and volatile reptile.

“No…” said Drake, feeling his anger rising. “Not today...not today!”

The first car that was flung from the overpass still had its screaming passenger on board and Drake jumped into his backseat swearing and fumbling about for his costume under the seat. Darkwing Duck was going to show this backwater country rattlesnake absolutely no mercy.

\---------

Justin Hartwell heard before he saw the first car being flung over the highway and felt his heart stop. Two more cars followed, and people started screaming, and leaving their cars, jumping out of the doors and car windows and rushing down the highway between the rows. He stood stock still in his car for a moment, seized by fear for himself, then pulled his window down and poked his head outside to see if he could spot how close the danger was and the cause. For a moment, he was confused. A duck’s hind end was sticking out of the back window of the car ahead of him.

_I can’t see! Damnit leave your car or don’t!_

And then Christmas, his birthday, and New Years Eve all happened at once as the front of the duck in the back of the car pulled out of the window and Hartwell was looking into the aggravated and angry face of Darkwing Duck, mask, cape and all.

Hartwell could have cheered. He reached over to his passenger seat in delight for the DSLR camera sitting there and quickly left the car.

“Huh? Where did he go?”

It took a moment, but he very quickly realized that Darkwing was leaping, from car to car, top to top, towards the source of the car tossing...a rather large and vicious alligator.

“Holy moley! Lockjaw’s got nothing on this!”

And he rushed forward between the cars, switching his camera to video mode, intent on catching every single solitary second.

\------------

“I am the terror that flaps in the night!”

He threw the gas canister, right at the alligator Gumbo, who swallowed the canister as it exploded, then started coughing and choking on the smoke.

“I am the mosquito that bites your back just out of scratching distance!”

He lept, his gas gun shooting out his grapple as the distracted gator spit out the crunched remains of the blue gas canister.

“I am Darkwing Duck!”

The grapple wrapped around the gator’s tail and Darkwing yanked.

_Oh, that was a bad idea..._

Gumbo was totally unaffected, and having his tail yanked on only made him angrier. The gator leapt at him and Darkwing ‘eeped’, diving down under a car.

_Very bad idea! Very very bad idea!!_

The grumpy gator snarled, snapping his jaws at him, tossing the car sideways out of his way to get a better bite at him. Darkwing found himself crawling underneath cars as the gator tossed them over the highway’s edge trying to get at him, struggling to get his gas gun unloaded from the grapple rope.

“Bad idea, bad idea!” he said, those jaws were just inches away, and in a bright moment, with the line still attached to the croc's tail, he jumped over the side of the overpass and swung, coming up on the other side, and secured the line to the guardrail. Gumbo jerked around, jerking his tail in the process and yowled, and snapped at Darkwing again, managing to catch his cape.

“Eeep!”

Darkwing found himself tossed, literally in circles, which also had the fortuitous effect of getting the alligator’s leg wrapped up around the rope and causing him to trip, falling down with a giant snarling crash.

Darkwing got to his feet, shook his head, then pulled a second line out of his pocket. Gumbo came at him again, snarling and pulling on the rope, the overpass rail slowly coming loose on the other side. He made a lasso to toss at the gator’s snout, the line caught, and he pulled, and found himself quite cleanly in the happy state of having Gumbo just where he wanted him to be.

“Wow this is incredible!”

Darkwing blinked, the momentary distraction causing him to lift his head for only a moment. He only just noticed now that several people were standing safely off to the side watching them, mostly people with their phones out, but one actual reporter with a camera. Entirely unconcerned for the audience, Gumbo took advantage of his distraction to pull him up with his line and spin him around before slamming him down on the pavement.

“Ow…” Darkwing grumbled as he got to his feet. _No more playing games, people are watching you, expecting you to win this one, this guy is a pushover compared to Megavolt!_

“All right y’all I’m Darkwing Duck and I’m gonna teach y’all how to hogtie a crocodile!” yanking the line, Darkwing began running around the gator, and got him sufficiently tangled and wrapped up, securing his line to the mangled barrier rail, then climbing up onto the alligator to stand on his prone belly. The audience applauded.

“What have you done to my gator boy????”

“Jambalaya Jake,” Darkwing turned around, and faced the short, half naked hillbilly, wondering at how much grayer this hairy man’s beard was than the last time he had tangled with him. “I was wondering when you’d show your face in my city again.”

“This ain't your city boy!” said Jake, pointing to the trees beyond the overpass. “This here is the swamp, and these city people ain’t wanted here! We’re gonna clear ‘em out, so you just butt out of it!”

Darkwing swallowed hard. Jake really did have a point. Nobody had asked the people in the swamp if it was okay to build an overpass. It had just been done. This was something he had been expecting, if he was really honest with himself.

“You’re right,” he said, surprising even Jake. “But these people don’t deserve to be hurt, maybe killed, they just use the roads, and this isn’t the right way to handle a disagreement...I still have to protect these people and I will.”

“Oh no you don’t,” said Jambalaya, pointing at the gas gun he’d been ducking into his cape to reload. “You know how we settle things in the swamp boy, it's just a man...and a man.”

Darkwing moaned, gritting his teeth and looking up at the sky. He had an audience. And one of them was a reporter. But Jambalaya didn’t care, and Darkwing sighed, and dropped his gas gun on the ground.

\--------

_What on earth?_

Justin Hartwell was confused. Darkwing had incapacitated the crocodile. He had a gas gun, but he had dropped it. And was now taking off his cape, his coat...and his sweater?

_He’s just wearing an undershirt and...oh my god they really aren’t going to do what I think they’re going to?_

“Ye how boy, that’s how we do things here, we wrastle!”

Darkwing took a wrestler’s stance, looking nonplussed.

“I’m gonna show you who's in charge of justice in St Canard,” Darkwing said provokingly. “The city _and_ the swamp! Come at me!”

And before Hartwell could even blink the two men rushed forward into a grapple and came down on the ground. He could barely hold his camera steady, the people around them gasped in shock.

Jambalaya Jake was snarling like an animal, Darkwing was grunting and hissing through his teeth and they were both twisting and turning trying to get one another into a headlock. Hartwell was startled when Darkwing was suddenly tossed physically by Jake’s feet, and Darkwing rolled and stood up.

Apparently official wrestling rules didn’t apply, kicking was allowed. Darkwing launched himself again, looking sweaty, dirty and angry, and the two opponents again collided.

\-------

His lungs should have burst by now he was sure. Jake’s fingernails were clawing into his feathers, pulling them loose, and Darkwing was certain he left just as many scratches on the man’s skin.

This sort of fighting was animalistic. Primal. Salt, and sweat, and blood, and the smell of hot nasty breath on him and the earthy smells of the swamp and he kicked out with his flippers, flinging Jake off of him.

Swamp rules. Until the other opponent gave up, or was knocked out, they kept going. No punching and biting allowed, but that was about it. And he could feel, without seeing, the alligator was slowly working himself loose somewhere behind him.

_Gotta time this just right!_

Jake got up and launched at him, just as Gumbo had come up behind him, jaws wide and Darkwing jumped up and Jake saw the open jaws in front of him.

“No biting, you goony gator, stop!”

The jaws closed, and Darkwing landed a patented triple webfoot kick to the gator’s Jake-stuffed snout, sending him stumbling backwards over the edge of the overpass and they both fell screaming, down down down back into the bayou below.

Darkwing walked over to the edge and put his foot up on the rail and looked over, and just saw Jake dizzyingly getting to his feet. The battered bayou baddie bopped the gator on the head before stumbling away into the trees swearing. He’d clearly given up.

“And don’t you dare show your face here again!”

Uproarious applause from the bystanders and Darkwing laughed, sauntering exhaustedly over to pick up his gas gun and the rest of his costume.

“Yep yep yep, all in a day’s work for Darkwing Duck,” he drawled, and turned to give the reporter a small bow and then went down the line of cars to where his own was parked and…

And...nothing. Nothing.

“My car,” he said, gasping. His car had been the last victim of the gator’s tossing spree, the car behind him had been where they’d stopped fighting and he’d leapt over the road. “My car…”

“Darkwing!”

A bright voice had followed him, and he turned, and found the reporter coming towards him, walking briefly passed him to stand in front of the unharmed car.

Lanky, average height, horn rimmed glasses, brown hair, and a brown nose to match, just sort of average all around. He was definitely a reporter.

“Justin Hartwell, of the St. Canard Sentinel,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift, if you give me an exclusive?”

Darkwing stared at him in disbelief. This was the owner of the undamaged car? The reporter was holding his car keys up enticingly.

“Sure. Sure, why not!”

\---------

Hartwell could just not believe his luck, as Darkwing Duck tiredly pulled himself into the passenger seat and buckled in immediately. Head back and breathing hard, he looked like he’d just crawled his way out of the pits of hell.

“Sorry if I’m getting sweat and blood all over your car,” he said, almost sarcastically.

“Oh no, no trouble at all Darkwing. Here I’ll turn on the A/C so you can cool down and get comfortable…”

He set the fans blowing cooling air towards the sweating battle weary duck. He had interviewed many athletes after a big game, he was not unfamiliar with the smells that resulted from a sports victory. 

“You know, I’m pretty familiar with all the major news anchors and reporters in the city, but I don’t think I’ve ever met you before…”

“I just moved here from Toronto this year,” said Hartwell, happy to make small talk with the ‘Terror that flaps in the night’, as he set up his audio recorder.

"Canadian eh?” said the duck, and Hartwell mentally rolled his eyes. “Yep yep yep, you came to the right city for a good story anyways…”

“Yes…”

“So…” Darkwing sighed, taking another heavy breath. “What did you want to ask me? I mean, you saw the whole fight…”

Hartwell paused. He did have the whole thing on film. What more could he ask? Then.

“Well, there is one thing,” he made sure he was recording, and leaned back. “At one point in the battle you stopped. You had your gas gun, you had the alligator tied up. But you stopped, and wrestled the way he wanted. You could have defeated him easily if you had used the gun. Why?”

Darkwing’s face grew momentarily sad, almost guilty, and he swallowed.

“You see that swamp,” he pointed, and Hartwell looked out the window briefly. 

“Yes.”

“That’s where Jake lives. And many others like him. In cabins and shanties. And people called them swamp rats, squatters, jobless, alcoholic, worthless,” Darkwing’s eyes closed. “But nothing can be _further_ from the truth. They have their own culture, their own code of honor, and they work their lands, surviving off the wilderness, and respecting that wilderness. And they’ve lived there for over a hundred years, maybe even as far back as the first settlers in Calisota. And the one thing they value above anything else is respect. If you respect their ways, they’ll respect you,” Darkwing lifted his head. “I beat Jake, and if he respects his own traditions, he won’t bother this highway again. He might find other targets for his aggression, he’s a rather old enemy of mine, but we have an understanding. I’ll fight him again, I just know it. He’s not someone who takes his licks quietly…”

Hartwell thought about that for a moment.

_Respect. A fair fight..._

It was a momentary thought, a notion, but he leaned back.

“I’m thinking of the knights of the middle ages, chivalry on the battlefield, fair play.”

“Well, yeah, a bit like that I guess. Respect goes a long way with people like Jake. Though that alligator, I swear, I’ll make him into a handbag someday...”

Hartwell laughed, but he also knew he already had his title, and quickly scribbled it down,

_A Duck Knight Duels With A Dragon._

“It may be a few hours before the police can get here, clear traffic and get us moving, so would you mind if I turned on the radio? I promised a friend I’d listen to the announcement at seven…”

The clock said it was nearly six fifty.

“I don’t see why not, you gave me an exclusive…”

Darkwing chuckled as he searched through the radio channels.

“In fact, I might give you two. My source said this announcement had something to do with that swamp over there, and the refugee allotments. But you didn’t hear that from me, all right?”

“Sure,” Hartwell grinned, knowing he wasn’t going to press his luck on Darkwing. One story with this masked mallard was enough. “Here, I’ll put up the antenna so we can get a better signal…”

\----------

Gladstone Gander sat with his back to the wall, in his chair in the hallway, feeling his anticipation and fear rising. His Uncle was here, this time looking more somber than he had ever seen him.

“If you can’t go on, I’ll go…”

Gladstone swallowed. He knew this was more a goad than intent, and he stood to his feet. He almost felt ready to let him.

“If I don’t tackle this fear now, I have no right to be a part of this company. Speaking in front of people is an important talent.”

But he was sweating. His chest felt tight and his stomach was churning.

Scrooge put his hands on his shoulders, pulling his attention back to him firmly.

“You can do this, son,” he said. “I’m very proud of you.”

Gladstone felt his breath hitch. His heart leapt over in his chest and he felt his eyes water.

“Ah no, don’t cry, the cameras will see that,” Scrooge took out his hanky to dab his face for him. “Just go out there and do your best.”

Gladstone nodded, and closed his eyes. The room outside had gone silent. Scrooge left him to go sneak over and signal the announcer and the lights began to rise.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said a female voice, coming over the speaker brightly and full of that positive energy he had tried to instill from the moment he had taken command. “McDuck Industries is proud to welcome to the stage our new CEO, Mister Gladstone Gander!”

He turned, and bounded out onto the stage, a little bottle of water in one hand, his cards in his other, moving a little too quickly for his own comfort. The light hit him like beams of fire, the sound of clapping hit his ears like kettle drums and he couldn’t make the protection and stability of the podium quickly enough.

“Thank you,” he said to quiet them, then set his cards and the water bottle on the podium. “Thank you,” he repeated, to silence the last smattering of applause.

Anxiety gripped him suddenly and he stopped. So many eyes. And he looked over in panic momentarily at the place where his family was sitting. Abner was sitting there too, completely unknowing.

_Family helps family. Oh god...he just doesn’t know…_

“Sunlight,” he began, feeling every eye in the room on him. “Is the gift of life. To many, sunlight has traditional and very sacred meanings...From the very earliest tribal groups to modern times, the sun has been seen as the healer, the father, the giver of life. Its energy provides life to plants and animals, and our rotation of the sun gives us the seasons, our annual cycle of crops and the harvest, feeding us and nourishing us. But the sun offers us more,” he swallowed, his throat aching, not sure how he was finding the courage to keep going, but he pressed on. “The sun hits our planet with more energy in one day than all the power plants on earth combined. And now, finally, in this modern day and age, we have the gift of technology sufficiently advanced enough to make use of that energy for our own needs.”

He paused to take a drink of water from his water bottle, and realized he hadn’t even been looking at his cards. He thought he was sticking pretty closely to what he had wrote, he wasn’t sure, but he pressed on anyways, before he lost the momentum.

“Today, McDuck Industries is pleased to announce our partnership with the Solar Energy Computer Technology company to provide solar energy to the city of St Canard and Duckburg, as well as wind power. With this partnership comes our commitment to embrace the green earth,” he felt he was channeling the boys now, feeling their energy from wherever on earth they were. “To protect the waters, the forests and the land. So today, McDuck Industries is proud to also announce our promise to commit to becoming 100% carbon neutral over the next ten years, with our factories here in Calisota converted fully by this time next year,” he knew this announcement would shock the traditional mining partners that they worked with. “We look forward to better serving the community, and the people who live here to protect what is most precious to all of us. Our world is a precious gift. With McDuck Industries, and SEC Tech joining forces, we think the future of this world will be a lot greener and brighter. Thank you.”

The applause was agonizing. It pounded in his head, and he felt his chest constrict and he knew he was on the edge of his bravado. He couldn’t keep this up.

“Here to tell us just a little bit more of the technical details, I would like to welcome to the stage the CEO of SEC Tech, Mister Maxwell Shrife!”

He clapped his hands as he turned to look at the man, then moved forward to shake the man’s hand as he approached, the man took the hand, smiling stiffly, then passed him, and Gladstone rushed to return backstage into the darkness, but he didn’t stop there. The applauds were going up like the roaring of thunder, his heart was beating, his chest was pounding, and he rushed past his startled secretary in the hallway, running up the stairs, pounding his feet on the floor, and just making the door to his office before tears started rushing down his face. His stomach twisted into knots as he threw open the door of his utility closet and threw himself inside, slamming the door behind him before falling to his knees bawling like a child.

All he could think of now was his parents' faces, his mother and father, in the snow, frozen and lifeless, and wishing he had died right along with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Bobby Snaps was going to be the reporter, but then I remembered I made him Gosalyn's age and she's a teenager. I also wanted the Sentinel to be a more honest newspaper than the one Sizzle Snaps works for, so a new reporter was needed.
> 
> And I made him Canadian because I am. I am a very very proud Canadian, :3
> 
> SEC Tech was supposed to be Solar Energy Technologies Incorporated but really early in the first part I saw that I had called it SEC Tech and not SET Co, and decided to just rearrange the name a little bit.


	19. Dragons and Demons

_Sore...so sore…_

Drake moaned, and stretched, and tapped his phone screen to turn off the alarm. Tank Muddlefoot was singing in the shower, taking after his mother in this way, and thus it was not his phone that had woken him. His phone was plugged into the trailer’s small power generator, and it was the only thing turned on in the camper. The tv was off, and the vcr and the microwave’s clock was dark.

_Electric bill is way overdue. If I hadn’t heard the announcement last night I wouldn’t have seen it on TV._

The plucky young reporter who had given him a ride home had exchanged phone numbers with him with a promise to let him know if he heard or learned anything that might help him with his crime fighting, in exchange for maybe another piece of Darkwing news to share with the world every once and awhile.

“Darkwing Duck has a friend in the press corps.”

Drake considered that. He’d never had a friend reporter. Bobby Snaps was the closest really, and he hadn’t heard from that young man in a long time.

_His dad’s paper is one of the ones who hates me the most, really...all they do is publish lies about me. And occasionally trot out their conspiracy theories..._

Tom Lockjaw’s relationship with him had been sort of half-symbiotic and half-parasitic, but at least he had been mostly truthful with his reports, if sensationalist in nature. Neither man liked the other, but they had both thrived off the commercial success of Lockjaw’s reports, in fact the annoying news anchor had saved his skin in court with his recordings.

_The Sentinel is more interested in world news and politics than local stories. But Justin Hartwell might actually be useful as an ally. I wonder how well his story went down…_

A quick search on his phone told him everything he needed to know. The Sentinel’s story was good, high quality writing, but a lot of other papers had quickly taken the story and adjusted things to suit their own tastes.

_Ugh. Just...ugh. I need a coffee…_

Drake got up to his feet, and remembered they didn’t have much power, and thus, not much likelihood of coffee, and then slumped back down. He was feeling bleak, and he hadn’t yet broken the news to Tank about the allotments, mostly because he knew Gladstone wanted the news to stay somewhat discreet. If he was right, the McDucks were only going to be manufacturing the green technology, not deciding where it would go. Any trouble for them would lose them the deal, but not stop the deal from going through with someone else.

_Glomgold maybe? Gah, not good..._

Drake looked around the trailer for a clean shirt to wear, and all he found that fit were some of Tank’s cast offs. A honking horn outside suddenly jerked him into a more alert state of mind.

_Oh, right, Launchpad! I forgot I texted him last night. Damn, I should have texted him before fighting Jake...I’ll have to ask him to see if he can find the car, or at least salvage Gladdy’s lucky pack, if it hasn’t been stolen by now. Dammit!_

Drake had basically lost everything Gladstone had given him but his phone. He had suicidally kept his phone with him as he lept into battle, and he took a deep thankful breath that he had.

 _But my god, it survived without a scratch! This phone is made of titanium and pure luck_.

And speaking of luck...he considered for a moment, then opened his phone and texted Gladstone as Launchpad honked his horn again. Tank came stumbling out of the bathroom still drying his hair with a towel and Drake got bodily between him and the door and pointed to his work stuff still on the floor.

“Don’t forget that. Want to have everything for your first day of work. And there’s some cans of soda still in the fridge. Might not be much but you have to have something for breakfast, you need energy.”

“Right…and I got some change, I can pick up something at the bus station while I wait for the bus.”

Drake checked his phone as Tank stumbled out of the trailer. Gladstone wanted lunch instead. He grabbed a can of cola for himself in place of coffee and went outside.

Launchpad immediately looked Drake up and down and shook his head.

“We gotta get the Thunderquack working again. No, I gotta get it working again,” he corrected himself. “Go back to bed.”

“Sure,” Drake checked his phone whilst taking a sip of the fizzy drink. “Pick me up later, Gladstone said he’ll have lunch with me…”

“Right...he’s been very helpful to you,” said Launchpad. “It's not too much to ask for help now and again…and he did offer.”

“After last night’s speech, he might need more help than I do.”

Launchpad only looked puzzled at that comment. Drake waved as the truck pulled out, and stumbled back into the trailer, taking another sip of the pop.

_Too much sugar. But after last night, I have to consider pumping up my calorie count and hitting the pavement again. Getting in a good jog every day._

He needed to find a better shirt than one of Tank’s old browns to wear, and eat something before he napped, or he’d be totally useless all day.

_Damn...my resume was in the car too. I’ll have to go to the library again!_

It almost wasn’t worth it to take the job. But Jay Gander Hooter had been very adamant in needing his help. And he didn’t need anymore problems to be dealing with.

_It’s time for me to take charge of my life again. I need a job and by hell or high water I’m going to get it!_

\--------

Gladstone Gander rolled over in bed, feeling the headache threatening around the edges of his vision and hating it.

It was the only thing that his good luck could not prevent, the ‘morning after’ headache from drinking too much alcohol. He was very much in control of his destiny, but not his biology, his body behaved exactly as a drunk body would.

_Can’t always expect lady luck to bend the laws of probability for my benefit._

He sat up, raggedly ran a hand through his curls, and looked around. His hotel room was an expensive mess. Clothes were on the floor, he’d have to discreetly call room service to deal with the vomit and the sheets. A few empty cans and bottles of whatever cheap stuff they drank were still lying out on the bar, bedside table, the window sill, and the floor.

Donald was still passed out hungover on the couch. Fethry was somewhere in the bathroom being sick. Abner had possibly already gone home...or was passed out somewhere he couldn’t see?

_I have to hand it to Donald, when he promises to throw you a party, he goes all out._

Shaking off the memory of his panic attack the night before, Gladstone considered quietly the circumstances of events that had led to his getting drunk with all his cousins.

Donald had been the one to find him in the closet. Had been the one to climb in the closet with him and listen as he cried out his heart and gasped out his memories. Gladstone could remember most of what he had said and it had been raw. For the first time ever he had confided in his cousin, told him everything about his parent’s deaths, things he had never told anyone but Aunt Matilda.

It had been a holiday trip, on an old fashioned steam train, all painted red and green and decorated with holiday decorations. He had been opening presents in the dining carriage with other children on board when the bridge had collapsed.

He remembered still, the feeling of ice and slush and cold, the freezing chill, feeling so very small, being so very much alone. The smell of burning metal and flesh and feathers, the sound of fire and the choking smell of smoke from the burning steam engine. All the tangled bodies in various states of destruction littered across the frozen ground.

Using his parents bodies and blood stained clothing for warmth.

_And then they found me…_

The rescuers shrieked when he popped out from under his mother’s arm, not expecting to find anybody alive. The emergency crews, the ambulance, and the hospital...

Donald had listened to all this, and Gladstone felt that his cousin had really been repaying an old debt. Gladstone had gone to visit Donald once when he was in the hospital after being shot in battle. During his army days, well before the nephews were born, all those many years ago. Lying there on an oxygen tube, barely able to breath, his lungs completely useless for anything else, Donald had sat there listening as Gladstone told him silly stories about what had happened to people in Duckburg while he had been away, the family gossip, talking about Della’s pregnancy...about Daisy...

_It must have annoyed the hell out of him to not be able to reply. Or shut me up. I did talk a lot..._

Hearing Donald’s voice again after he left the hospital had been unbearable. His cousin’s enunciation had never been very good, but he had at least been understandable and had been very clever and witty at times, and always spoke his mind. Smoke and gunpowder and gas and chemical warfare and all the other horrors of the battlefield had destroyed his voice box completely.

_I should have gone with Donald’s family when my parents died, really we were much friendlier as children, we got along better…But how could they have fought it out in family court with no money to their name?_

His Aunt and Uncle on his father’s side had gotten to him first. Eunice and Betlam Gander.

_Sweet merciful luck, they couldn’t even wait until after my parents were in the ground to start milking me!_

Interviews. Cameras. Big parades. The child that survived the big disaster. The Luck Child. The Angel. Saved by a Miracle. Newspapers. Television reports. The _talk shows_ they had dragged him on!

Gladstone felt his breath hitch again, threatening another panic attack, and he tried not to trip over his cousin Abner, yes he was still here, as he tried to reach the bathroom. Fethry stumbled out, and then wandered over to the bed Gladstone had vacated and climbed into it, doing little more than grunt.

_Aunt Matilda...showed up at the house one night while I was sleeping. I heard them yelling..I heard what she said…_

He could hear her voice in his head, as if it had been that day.

_“Sabotage! The police said it was sabotage! You knew what would happen with Daphne’s luck! You did this!”_

_“Prove it.”_

_“I don’t have to,” she’d replied. “The people will be the judge of you. Sign the paper.”_

_“No, I don’t think we will…”_

_“Do you really want the whole world to know how much you made off your brother’s death? How much you’ve been making now from exploiting Gladstone? Because I will tell them. I will show them the bank ledgers.”_

_“You wouldn’t dare!!!”_

_“You give me that child, and you’ll sign right here giving him to me. And do no more harm by him!”_

And just like that he had been whisked off to McDuck Castle, never again to see the Gander side of the family except briefly, to sue for and take possession of his mother’s boat, which had been all that had been left of the estate after his Aunt and Uncle had gotten through with it.

 _I should take my cousins out on the boat as a thank you for this party,_ Gladstone decided, leaving the bathroom as quickly as possible. _The hull needs to be blacked, it probably needs some repairs...the engine. Right, I need to get the engine fixed. But it's a sailing yacht, so maybe it's safe to just sail around the harbor without engine power…_

Donald was stumbling passed him now, trying to get into the bathroom, and Gladstone moved himself out of his way. Really, getting drunk with his cousins was probably a bad idea. Being drunk affected his luck in weird ways as well.

But he hadn’t been himself, hadn’t even realized Fethry had been in the audience until he showed up in the office looking for Donald, and had offered to drive him back home. And Abner had admitted to having a couple of cases of beer in the back of his pickup truck after Donald suggested they have a party to celebrate Gladstone’s first outing as CEO. How could he resist having a good time with his cousins after years of estrangement?

 _Too much beer, and the expensive hotel wine,_ he picked up a half empty bottle from the bar, realized that he probably would never find the cork, and went looking for a clean glass.

“Oh no ye don’t Gladdy,” Abner stumbled into the dining area and grabbed the bottle from his hand. “Save it, we’ve all got trouble when Uncle finds out about us, we don’t need you ending up in the papers.”

“Not too much trouble,” said Gladstone, finding a glass anyway to have some water. “Uncle Scrooge hadn’t planned for any interviews or anything else for me after the speech. He knew I’d have a bad trip…”

“Huh, ye should’ve told us before about it,” Abner shook his head. “There’s a lot that can be done for stage fright.”

“I know,” said Fethry, who stuck his head up from where he was lying on the bed. Donald had wandered over and Abner put an arm around his shoulder. “We can all be your guinea pigs next time you have a speech. Practice in front of us. We’ll heckle you worse than anyone, and once you can handle family...you can handle the world!”

Abner gave a hearty guffaw at this, slapping Donald on the back, which Donald swore in response to.

Gladstone felt an incomparable warmth in his chest at the clear support his cousins were showing him now, having never felt this kind of support before, and not feeling as he really deserved it.

Just then they all heard it. The bleep of somebody's cell phone.

“I think that’s mine,” Gladstone searched the jackets and loose neck ties on the floor for his buzzing phone.

It was an IM alert message from Drake Mallard.

 **Drake:** Coffee? Breakfast somewhere?

Gladstone looked over at his cousins. Donald poked his beak over Gladstone’s shoulder to peek, Fethry actually took the phone to type in a message, and Gladstone yanked the phone out of his hands before he could hit the enter button. Abner rewarded him by grabbing the phone himself to look at, and snerked.

“Friend of yours?”

“Yeah…give that back!”

Gladstone grabbed the phone again and ran for the safety of the bathroom, and locked the door, turning and putting his back against it laughing as his cousins knocked and teased him. He looked down at the screen and typed out his reply.

 **Gladdy:** Sorry, I’m with family right now. Lunch maybe?

 **Drake:** Sounds good to me. Did you check the news yet? I recommend _The Sentinel_ if you pick up the paper this morning...

_The news? Did he leak the story already?_

Too soon. Gladstone unlocked the door, stalked passed his confused cousins and went to the hotel hallway to check. The Sentinel was one of the papers he had asked be delivered right to his hotel room door, and it was there on the floor, with the Duckburg Times and all the usual papers. He picked it up, knowing his cousins were waiting for him, and unrolled it, eyes going wide.

**_A Duck Knight Duels With A Dragon_ **

Gladstone gave a laugh, and showed his confused cousins the front page, a rather large picture of Darkwing Duck, launching himself towards a giant of an alligator, the biggest he could ever remember seeing, gas gun launching a grapple, the creature’s jaws open wide frozen midframe in a vicious bite aimed for his feet.

“Tarnation!” said Abner. “What’s that goony gator up to now?”

“Goodness,” Fethry took the paper. “Gladstone, is this...?”

“Yes, this is the friend that wants to meet up with me…Darkwing, not the alligator.”

Donald shook his head, crossing his arms.

“Gladstone,” he said, very carefully, so he would be understood by everyone. “You are crazy,” he pointed to his head with his finger and made circles with it to indicate as such.

Abner had a momentary knowing look.

“What exactly kind of friend is he to ye cousin?”

A thorny question. Abner wasn’t exactly on the left leaning side of the ballot box. But...

“One I hope to marry one day.”

Abner rolled his eyes as if he had guessed right. Donald chuckled into his hand and Fethry cackled, and jumped up on the bed.

“You know what this means boys?”

“You’re damned right” said Abner, pointing a hand into the air. “We’ve gotta make him all fancy for his date!”

“Wha-what? My _date_?!” Gladstone barely had a moment to register this comment before Abner and Donald grabbed him and hoisted him over their heads to carry off to the bathroom, Fethry cackling and following in their wake.

\----------

Launchpad McQuack parked his truck in the bus station carport and leaned back in the seat as Tank Muddlefoot rooted around in the passenger side for his work gear, getting his things together. When he had arrived at the Muddlefoots this morning he had only found one Muddlefoot, and an exhausted and badly bruised and battered Drake Mallard, who’d only asked for a ride into town later to take lunch with Gladstone before stumbling back into the trailer to go back to sleep. Launchpad decided he was going to find out about Drake’s car as soon as he had the chance. 

_Man, as if DW doesn’t have enough troubles, he has to deal with Jambalaya Jake so soon after fighting Megavolt. It's been what, a week?_

Realizing that Tank had already said goodbye and walked away, and knowing that Drake’s car was probably being crushed into a cube in a dump somewhere as he sat there, he remembered himself and pulled out of the bus depot.

_So I find out where the car got to, and maybe rent him a better one if he has to rent one, he can’t be without a car. Damn, every bad thing that could happen is happening to DW right now, and where am I? Not much of a side kick if he’s stuck in traffic fighting gators and I’m flying back and forth to Duckburg._

But Darkwing Duck was not going to be getting back to full form overnight. The Ratcatcher and Thunderquack were still needing a lot of work.

 _I’ll stop by the hardware store after I drop him off for lunch. Pick up the paint, the tools and parts I need,_ he had made the list of supplies ages ago and just had neglected the work. _He should be able to call me for backup at a moment’s notice. Hell, with his secret identity out he could just call me on a cell phone, security isn’t that big a problem anymore…_

But having villains know what they were planning was. Some were good enough to hack cell signals. He sighed. The Secret Darkwing Messaging System would be needing repair, and updating to the modern world, and he decided to set everything up in whatever tower Darkwing wanted him to set it up in. The bridge was pretty much their territory again, if Jay Gander Hooter’s promise was to be believed.

_But first I go back and get Drake, it's 10 already, I don’t want him to be late for lunch!_

\-------

Fenton Crackshell winced and raised his eyes to the heavens as the cacophony of the lunch crowd in the dinner hall hit his ears. He gave his lunch tray a baleful look as it was handed to him. Green beans and something vaguely resembling custard doled out in large goopy spoonfuls. But experience told him it was some sort of cream corn potato puree. The sound of criminals laughing, yelling, and the wilder ones bouncing off the walls, hit his ears. He could not forget that a lot of these criminals had super powers of some kind, and he only had his super powerful mathematical brain. Not much to work with against tough guys like Cementhead. But he did manage to avoid any attention as he made his way to his usual spot, the only spot nobody sat at, which he sat at to avoid sitting with anybody else.

It was probably going to come back to bite him, fast.

“So you got out early?”

That petulant comment had come from Bushroot, who was strangely smiling, looking very delighted by his presence, which usually signalled trouble. He sat at his usual table, with his usual companion, Quackerjack, who both basically ruled the lunch room these days. Fenton longed to get his hands on the TV remote. One episode of Truth or Crunchequences, that was all he asked!

“There was a riot in death row or something,” Fenton shrugged, and impaled a green bean. “So solitary is full up.”

“I would know, I’m on death row,” Bushroot reminded him, haughtily, and crossed his arms as if this was a point of pride.

A stay of execution, which had followed a very large Greenbeak International protest about Bushroot’s status as the only member of his species, was the only thing keeping Bushroot from being turned into guacamole. “Do you want to know who else got out of solitary today?”

The whole room suddenly went quiet. The air seemed to drop in temperature, and criminals left and right scrambled to find their seats.

Only two people could bring that sort of response from this group...the warden...and…

Bushroot was grinning like a madman, anticipation of murder in his eyes. Quackerjack was mockingly praying for him, eyes closed, hands together, smiling toothily. It was as if the bells of hell were ringing, and the scar on his stomach was itching with memory, but he dare not scratch. The hasty sound of a tray being handed to someone, a gruff ‘thanks’ and the sound of footsteps. Silent sounds of people shuffling nervously and eating dutifully followed. He didn’t dare check to see if there were any Larrys or Curlys in the ranks in the guards on duty.

This was one person they were not going to mess with.

_How long has it been since I was stabbed? Two months? Three?_

A metal lunch tray landed on the table in front of him. A lunch tray with a nice bologna sandwich, an apple and a chocolate milk, something none of them ever got. Only one prisoner could threaten the cafeteria staff so badly as to warrant a nice meal.

“I heard a rumor,” Negaduck put his hands down on the table top, looking him straight in the eye, the two of them now connected by their pupils.

Negaduck was the only criminal still allowed to wear a mask in prison, and the two eyes looking back at him were whirling white firestorms against a background of darkness.

Fenton did not speak. He was the hare now, and the wolf was clearly planning his next words very carefully.

“I heard a rumor!” he said loudly, enough for everyone to hear, and then the Duck’s voice turned...strangely less aggressive. “That you took care of my boy, Megavolt. Got him to the hospital, and got him the medicine he needed. Am I right?”

Fenton felt all his prayers seemed to catch in his throat at once. He hitched a breath.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said, feeling himself brave enough to relax...just a hair.

Negaduck considered him for several long, breath stealing minutes, then finally sat down.

“So I guess now we’re even.”

Fenton felt the air in his chest all come out at once.

“The warden says I have to sit with you,” Negaduck added, taking a big boring bite of his sandwich. “Just don’t get _used_ to it.”

Every head in the room suddenly jerked up as a mutant plant-duck suddenly launched to his feet, stalked down the rows of the tables towards the exit, sending a stack of empty lunch trays crashing onto the ground as he passed them on his way out the door.

Quackerjack rolled his eyes.

“What a drama queen.”

Negaduck laughed, and laughed, and cackled that laugh that sent a shiver down every spine in the room, and Fenton almost couldn’t finish his lunch.

Hell had sent its most devious devil to sit with him, and that devil now held all the cards.  
  



	20. Making Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten this story, I just had my head in the stars for awhile. I want to get my Halloween Trek story done but I'll pick up this story heavily again in the coming months, don't you worry. I haven't forgotten, yes indeedy. :3

“Sorry to be late,” Drake said, slipping through the crowd milling in front of the McDuck Industries building. “We got caught in traffic…”

“Oh that’s all right Drake,” Gladstone lifted his head to acknowledge and wave to Launchpad, who was already pulling away. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind coming to me, the place is only a short walk away, and I wanted to show you my building, at least from the outside…”

Drake looked up at the square brick building in consideration.

“You said it was a school?”

“Yes, architectural design, before the University campus moved to a larger premises on the edge of the city. I made sure to incorporate as many of the old school’s objects in the interior design as I could.”

“You know things about the city I don’t,” Drake laughed. “And now that I think back about it, that question you asked me on the ferry, to tell you about local sites you might not know about...you already knew them.”

“I didn’t know the superhero stuff, that’s all you,” Gladstone grinned, and nodded to indicate they should start walking. “Seeing as you’re once again slaying dragons I’d say you’re an expert in that regard.”

Drake chuckled and they started walking amiably together along the sidewalk towards their destination; an organic coffee and sandwich shop called The Green Bill. It was an old building made new, late Victorian maybe, or early Edwardian, which he decided must have been Gladstone’s favorite aesthetic. The shop was decorated with an ornate wooden sign, painted in green, with the name of the store in gold and green painted letters in a viney script. There was a sidewalk chalkboard sign advertising the day’s specials on the stoop and the tall windows had posters of their latest fluffy drink creations. He anticipated, along with the overpriced food, that he would find cheerful baristas, hipsters on their laptops and lattes with such sugary fluffy choices for toppings that you could use them as emergency floatation devices.

“So this place,” said Gladstone, as he pushed through the glass door. “I discovered the first day I started working here in St Canard, oh a few days after I bought the new building,” he rubbed his hands together. “I try to get here regularly, good prices, and the food is absolutely amazing.”

Drake had to stifle his retort that $10 for a grilled panini and an ice tea was way too overpriced to be a ‘special’ in his opinion. For a future quadrillionaire who probably often ate room service, this was probably considered slumming it. But he took a deep breath and followed, and was pleasantly surprised by the soft sound of jazz music hitting his ears. On the left by the corner windows was a raised platform with two person bistro table seating, and on the right was the lunch counter and barista bar. In the back half of the shop were larger tables, some old leather couches to lounge in, and a side hall leading likely to the bathrooms. Sure enough, Drake saw a few young people with laptops sitting on the couches there, and at the tables, and thought mournfully of his daughter, Gosalyn, out there somewhere in the great wide world.

_One day…_

“Shall I order for us? Or do you have something you already like the look of?”

Drake grimaced and looked up over the menu. All too expensive for his blood.

“I don’t know, what do you recommend?”

“Oh, the grilled cheese panini is the best I’ve ever had, but they have some very good soups too…”

Drake was looking at the menu, and his mind drew a blank.

“You pick, I can’t keep my brain off the prices.”

“Ah, well. Looks like the soup of the day is broccoli, not my favorite, but not bad…”

“I’ll have that…” Drake said, the price was more agreeable.

Gladstone seemed to consider, then ordered a panini and two soups and two iced teas for them, and they sat on the riser at one of the bistro tables overlooking the street.

“We can split the panini,” Gladstone chuckled. “Its something you have to try at least once. I can see you are really chafing now...are you all right?”

Drake fretted and sighed.

“I lost the car last night and my lucky pack, and I have to reprint my resume...last night really sucked. And...the announcement you made was alarming. I don’t know how to take it. But I think you need to be prepared for the worst…”

“Huh?”

Drake sighed and quietly told him the story, remembering the look on the reporter’s face when he heard the announcement. Both of them had simultaneously realized that the tip Darkwing had given him before they had listened to the announcement had been about the location for the project.

“I think the _The Sentinel_ will do its research,” Drake sighed. “I just don’t know what this is going to mean for the future. I can barely think of what this means for the Muddlefoots. Tank just got a job with Glomgold, poor kid has no idea what he’s in for.”

“Glomgold…” Gladstone seemed to shudder a bit. “Well, I can’t say there are worse people, because there aren’t. But at least its money in the bank.”

Drake laughed. Had to agree with that.

“If I can’t get that job Jay Gander found for my, I’m stuck, and he won’t have a guy on the inside keeping an eye on things…”

“I wish I could help with that, I,” he stopped talking as the waitress came over with their orders and leaned back to give her room to put the tray down.

Okay. Now he knew why the panini was almost $7 alone. It was almost as big as the plate it came on, almost, because it was too big, it hung over both sides. Gladstone thanked her, and immediately picked up his iced tea. “A toast? To hopefully you getting the job?”

“Oh,” Drake picked up his iced tea, and Gladstone smiled, one eyebrow raised, their glasses clinked together.

One hand. Drake realized it as he took the sip of the tea. But then again, this wasn’t water.

“So what were you saying before our lunch arrived?”

Gladstone looked around, seemed to consider, then leaned in a little.

“I won the golf game, and I learned why Glomgold is donating so many supplies to the allotments.”

It was hard to pay attention to the story as realization of what was happening now dawned over him. Gladstone’s green blue eyes were concerned and questioning, clearly he had caught the fear in his own.

“Jay Gander wants me to keep an eye on Glomgold because of his ties to FOWL,” Drake considered, stirring his broccoli soup absently and “Is...Glomgold trying to get his hands on Site Zero for FOWL?” Drake felt his horror fill him. “Could there be evidence left behind we don’t know about?”

Gladstone didn’t answer, just looked down into his bowl of soup. Suddenly their lunch date seemed so dark and dismal and…

 _Date?_ Drake stopped. _Did I just call this a date?_

“We need to keep that from happening at all cost,” Gladstone said. “I’ll have to talk to my Uncle, see if we can find a better solution.”

“I’ll need to try to convince my neighbors not to sell their property,” Drake said. “They need jobs so much, I can imagine many would feel pressured to sell if it would mean a guarantee of work.”

“What if…” Gladstone clicked his spoon in his bowl for a moment, and then smiled. “What if we can convince them to sell their property to Shrife and SEC Tech instead?”

Drake felt his confusing raising with his eyebrows, looking at the other duck incredulously, and took his first bite of the expensive sandwich Gladstone had bought them.

Instantly he was surprised. The gooey cheese, cheddar and mozzarella in layers, the crisp toasted twelve grain bread, and that extra zip of something that must have been some designer brand of mayonnaise, and he realized he had found one of his favorite new food groups.

“I guess I don’t understand? How would that fix the problem?”

“Don’t you see?” Gladstone sat up grinning like mad. “SEC Tech builds the new solar farm on Site Zero, and trades his land to the refugees in exchange.”

“We’d need to convince Shrife its in his best interest to move sites, and help the refugees,” Drake said thoughtfully. “But it could work.”

“I’ll discuss it with my Uncle and have him broach the subject to Shrife, he gets more respect from that guy than I do,” Gladstone sighed and sat back. “To be honest, my Uncle still does most of the work in the company.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I thought you gave a rather good speech,” Drake said, hoping to counter the miserable look on the other duck’s face.

Lunch was now feeling a little awkward, all the serious conversation turning this ‘date’ into more of a business meeting instead of lunch with a friend.

“Thanks I guess, I missed a few of my talking points and completely had a panic attack back stage. My cousins got me drunk last night,” he pointed to his eyes, which were looking a little baggy. “I have never ever felt so much love and support from those three in my life, and I got it all at once,” he shivered. “I guess I’m still unsettled by it all.”

“I wanted lunch to be casual and it became work talk,” Drake said. “Maybe we could...do this again when there’s not so much on our plates?”

Gladstone looked at him, a hopeful astonished expression on his face.

“I would love to do this again. And next time we’ll go somewhere you like to go…”

“It might end up being hamburger hippo with my budget,” Drake admitted. “But I would like that.”

Gladstone looked at him for a moment, a look of serious worry and panic briefly flashing, before he boldly asked,

“Make it a date then?”

Drake considered for a moment, their eyes catching, his companion's hopeful and worried, and he was certain his own eyes were the same as he responded resolutely,

“All right.”

* * *

“Hannah Downy?”

“Hm?”

“The board on the problem, if you please?”

She felt momentarily embarrassed, realizing that the teacher had said her name twice before she realized she was talking to her. She ignored the slight snicker from the other side of the room, and observed the blackboard for a moment. It took her a moment to work out the problem.

“Seventy two?”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Hartwell put a hand on her hip and sighed. “But please try to pay attention, Miss Downy.”

She reddened, and ignored the snickers that followed as the math teacher moved onto another student. The girls in this room were all pretty good at maths, but she knew this was a school for girls with below average marks that were hoping to play catch up over the summer, and she was trying not to feel depressed about it.

She hated this boarding school that the Government decided would be a good place for her to hide. She hated the girls, the smart mouthed girls and the snobby girls, all gossips who talked about all the same boring stuff, and looked at her sideways, and made fun of her weight, her short height, her red hair.

And she really hated her new name. Hannah Downy was not a name she would have chosen for hiding with.

 _I don’t think the FBI would have accepted The Crimson Quackette as my new identity,_ Gosalyn Mallard thought to herself, putting a hand in her red bangs and feeling frustration welling in her.

Four months, almost. Four months since she’d seen her Dad. And it was summer now, other schools had been out all month, and she had decided to spend the summer in school _learning_ instead of going back to foster care. She knew she needed the extra help, but she hated it nonetheless.

 _Anywhere but here,_ she looked out of the window and sighed, feeling as if she had looked out that window a million times. _Anywhere but so close, and yet so far away…_

Eventually Math class gave out to the lunch period, and Gosalyn found herself with her backpack over her shoulder, wandering by herself into the quad, feeling her very real panic coming back again. Panic that she would never see her old friends again. Panic that she would live in Duckburg for the rest of her life. Panic that she wouldn’t ever see her dad again, except in newspapers.

 _He’s back, and I’m stuck here when I could be at home, helping him kick bad guy butt,_ she pulled her backpack from off of her shoulder, sitting down on her favorite bench under a tree, and pulled out the day’s newspaper, wrinkled, that she had stolen from the school library. 

**_A Duck Knight Duels With A Dragon_ **

Jambalaya Jake’s big fearsome alligator Gumbo, and the image of her amazing, talented superhero father kicking his tail back to the swamp, filled her both with a hope and an urgency to get back home that was so overwhelming for a moment that she almost felt the tears coming back.

Almost. She did not want another talk with the school counselor. She wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, not even the school teachers, who she really was. And making up fake reasons why she was miserable and angry and didn’t want to be here was getting harder. The foster parents they’d put her with had completely no knowledge of her other life. She was from a single parent family, they had been told. That her father had ‘no work’ and is ‘homeless’ right now. Both of them had been very sympathetic. Both absolutely thrilled to hear she would be spending most of her time at boarding school. Overjoyed when she’d chosen to stay for the summer.

_Yeah, sure, they couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I guess I was just too spirited for them to handle..._

She shoved the newspaper back into her backpack and looked around the quad. The square rectangle school building, and the dormitory both stood almost in opposition to one another, the library and gymnasium at the other two sides of the square. A sidewalk around the perimeter and a walking path through the yard and a few trees, like the one she was sitting under, were to be found here. But it was mostly a cement block, and she felt almost as if she was looking up at the walls of a prison.

“Stop, wait…!”

Gosalyn looked up suddenly, at the sound of a girl making distressed sounds. Her hackles immediately rose.

Three big seniors were standing, bent and grinning, over a younger girl, around Gosalyn’s age, whom they had just shoved onto the ground. Printouts were floating in the air now, most were on the ground, and the older girls were laughing, as the younger girl tried to pick up her fallen papers.

“Go back to the money bin rich girl,” said one of the bullies.

“Looney bin you mean?” said another.

“Do you have your own little room in the fancy bin widdle Webby?”

Gosalyn picked up her backpack and charged forward immediately, rushing right in, and coming between the girl on the ground and the older girls.

“Stop that!”

“Oh look!” said one of the girls. “Is little Dowdy Downy being all badass today?”

“Isn’t she cute? She thinks we’re intimidated,” said another, and they laughed.

“She thinks she’s some kind of hero.”

“Hero of the lunch room maybe,” said the last, and they all practically rolled with laughter.

“All right, knock it off!” said Gosalyn hotly. “What did this girl do to you that you pushed her on the ground?”

“It's mostly that she is here, and this is our space, where we hang for lunch,” said the oldest, Patty Grunner, who was one of the meanest, and strongest, girls in the school.

Gosalyn knew she was in for a fight if these girls pushed her. They were all athletes, and Gosalyn had let herself go out of shape since leaving St Canard. She wanted to get on the soccer team, but she knew she needed to lose at least ten pounds to do it. She was very self conscious about it.

“Principal Bustlebottom usually watches the quad when she’s on lunch,” Gosalyn said, hating that she was resorting to the teacher’s pet sort of argument. “And she said if she saw you at it again you’d be in detention all month.”

The three girls gave brief looks up towards the school building, where the teacher’s lounge and offices were located, and Patty shrugged.

“Aw it's not like that, Downer Dowdy, we just wanted to make sure she knows her place here,” the three girls looked at her with disproving gazes, and moved away. 

The younger girl was still on the ground, picking up her flyers, tears on her eyes and an angry look on her face. She was conventionally cute, almost dainty, dressed all in pink and pastel green matching shirt and head bow, and her backpack was in the shape of a kitty cat. The flyers on the ground, printouts of some sort of club or society that the girl had been handing out. Gosalyn grabbed one to look at it.

“Writing club?” she said, and helped her gather up her papers.

“Yes,” said the girl, and she clutched the stack of papers to her chest. “I’ve been put in charge of the student newspaper so I thought I’d start a club to find other writers for it. I haven’t had much luck.”

Gosalyn pushed her red bangs back away from her eyes and shrugged.

“Do you need a reporter? I know everything that goes on in this school,” she rolled her eyes largely.

The other girl considered.

“What are your qualifications?”

“Oh, well I dunno,” Gosalyn laughed, and shrugged. “I’ve lived here for almost four months, I know all the names of all the girls here, and I know all the teachers. And I used to run a newspaper in my old town. But my friend does it now.”

“Really? Because I have no experience of any kind, I just asked the Principal if I could try it and she said ‘yes’,” the girl brightened. “My name is Webbigail Vanderquack. I prefer to be called Webby.”

“I’m G...Hannah,” Gosalyn corrected herself. “Hannah Downy.”

Webby seemed to think for a moment.

“Well I would be happy to have you as a reporter. Will you help me hand these out?”

She held out the stack of flyers, and Gosalyn smiled. She rather liked Webbigail Vanderquack. And the name seemed familiar. Was she a new student, or had she been in her classes all this time and she hadn’t noticed?

“Sure, but I don’t want to miss lunch, so let's go to the cafeteria, and we can do both at the same time. The cafeteria is always full of people.”

“Oh, okay,” Webby smiled, and added. “I’m kind of new here and I’m still trying to find my way around.”

“You’re a new student and you’re already running a club?” Gosalyn said. “I think you’re going to be alright.”

“Well, I love to write,” Webby frowned. “I was homeschooled before. And my Grandmother hasn’t been well, so I said I’d come here for the summer. I was looking forward to meeting people, making new friends,” her face turned almost sad. “I haven’t had much luck with that either.”

“What do you mean?” Gosalyn said. “You have just made one, count it, one friend,” she put a finger up to indicate the number. “And one friend is better than none right?”

Webby giggled and jumped excitedly.

“A new friend. And a newspaper of my own to run,” she looked at her stack of fliers and hugged them. “Oh now I’m so excited!”

“Oh don’t get too excited, having a newspaper is a lot of work,” Gosalyn said. “Take it from someone who has been there, and done that,” she grinned widely as she walked with her new friend across the quad, the two of them laughing and chatting all the way to the cafeteria.

* * *

Oh he was going to kill the warden. He was going to impale the man. Skewer him on a pike and leave him out as a warning to others.

“Well of course I’m your roommate!” Megavolt said loudly, pacing the cell. “Cause you helped me and all that right? This warden is nuts!”

“I thoroughly agree.”

Fenton Crackshell sighed and leaned back on his bunk and sighed. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to Quackerjack talking to his hand. Now he had to listen to Megavolt talking to himself.

“So Megsy,” he said, feeling daring. “How long you in for?”

The criminal gave him a murderous look.

“As long as it takes me to find a way to get out again,” said Megavolt seriously, and glared daggers into his soul. “Don’t you try to stop me. You won't like me when I'm mad.”

“On that at least we can agree.”

All of a sudden, the sound of cell doors locking filled the air, and the sound of the night guard yelling ‘lights out!’ filled the air, and Fenton sighed, and lay down on his bunch, looking up at the metal shelf above him in dread. Megavolt climbed up onto the top bunk, and Fenton turned and lay on his side.

Nothing. Megavolt didn’t say a word. He was whispering, and that was even worse.

 _Earplugs…_ Fenton thought. _What an amazing concept._

He silently and quietly rose his ear as much as possible to try and overhear what the fanatical criminal was whispering.

“Porque? Con quien esta saliendo?”

_Oh my god, he’s repeating that Spanish radio station...isn’t he?_

“...that ridge? Break, roger Nutcracker, Santa and his Reindeer are coming home…”

_Oh...oh my god. He’s actually picking up the coast guard. What about…?_

“Hey, Megavolt,” he said, wincing at the sudden jolt and the criminal looked down over the bunk at him, menacingly. “Jeez, relax, I just wanted to ask you, theoretically, is there a way you might be able to control will radio channel you can hear?”

“Why do you ask?”

Fenton looked at him fiercely. The prison was on night shift, but the prison cells remained lit to migraine inducing levels all night long for security purposes. He wondered for the one hundred and twentieth time since coming here if there were listening devices in the cells as well, and decided to risk it.

“Duckburg and St. Canard share protective control of the prison, and coordinate their police routes around the bay to ensure the prison is watched at all times. Knowing those routes would be helpful.”

The wily rat considered him for a moment, then grinned wickedly.

“You want to bust out of here too, don’t you Crackshell?”

“Not a moment goes by that I don’t,” he quirked his eyebrow up, trying not to betray his extreme need. “It's not an easy nut to crack, this prison. I’ve been...calculating the numbers since I got here.”

“Numbers?”

“My numbers,” Fenton said, and took a deep breath. “I could count Scrooge McDuck’s massive amounts of money by calculating volume, and length, width, height and general shape and distribution of coins. Mathematics. I can accurately predict the tolerances and weakness of materials and how much strength they have.”

Megavolt considered this over in his mind.

“So you would know which spots in the prison security grid would be vulnerable to an electric attack?”

“That might take a little longer,” Fenton admitted. “I wasn’t considering your unique gifts when I was studying all the potential escape routes. But I have a pretty good mental blueprint of this place in my head. It's tough. The old prison section is the point of greatest weakness.”

“Fantastic,” said Megavolt. “Maybe we’ll get along after all. I’ll tell you what I overhear from the radio, and you put everything together. We’ll share information,” he paused. “But if you double cross me, you’ll have to deal with Negaduck.”

“It goes without saying,” Fenton said, and put a hand under his shirt to feel the scar on his stomach, pointedly. “I scratch your back you scratch mine.”

“Just don’t ever touch me,” said Megavolt pointedly. “Not that I’d complain, but you risk getting a massive static shock that I can’t control or direct without my battery and suit.”

“Riiiiiight,” Fenton looked up at the bunk and was alarmed when the other criminal got down onto the bottom bunk with him.

“All right,” Megavolt lowered his voice to a whisper. “Here’s what I’m hearing now…”

And Fenton spent an astonishing two hours with Megavolt, analyzing the radio signals from the Duckburg police department and the coast guard.

And from what he heard, freedom didn’t seem that far away after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, I imagined Gosalyn attending a new school, boarding school, making friends with Webbigail, and all that. Then I remembered my story is set during the summer, so I had to google to see if there is such a thing as summer boarding school. I'm sort of making it up as I go, I guess. 
> 
> Also, the cafe that Drake and Gladstone visit is based on a real café in the city where I live that has the most incredibly gooey tasty grilled panini I have ever been blessed to taste. And I have been craving one since the quarantine started and haven't been able to get one, so I am very sorry if you now want one too. I just had to share this with someone.


End file.
